


The Colour of the Rain

by HousesHead13, Tailkinker



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Child Abuse, Humiliation, Rape, Really bad things happen to House, Slave Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 69,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HousesHead13/pseuds/HousesHead13, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tailkinker/pseuds/Tailkinker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House has been missing for three years - until Wilson finds him, enslaved and broken, working in a hotel bathroom. Wilson will stop at nothing to rescue House from this life, even if it means he has to become House's owner.  Co-written with HousesHead13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what happened: HousesHead13 (a writer on ff.net) emailed me with an idea for a fic, wherein all sorts of terrible things would happen to House. I said 'that's a nice idea but I'm busy writing another story at the moment, I don't think I can write anything else'. So they wrote the first scene and sent it to me. Intrigued, I wrote a few more lines and sent it back to them. They wrote some more. Forty thousand words (and still going) later we have this story. Later chapters will include some contributions from another writer -nickythehippi - who joined with us for some flashback scenes to House's childhood.
> 
>  **Warnings** \- The creator of the CollarVerse coined a phrase for this sort of fic - 'horrible things happen to House' and that about sums this fic up. This is a full-on slavery fic. It contains multiple instances of both physical and sexual abuse (rape) of Greg House, lots of humiliation scenes, restraints, caging, corporal punishment, flashbacks to childhood abuse, abuse of power and anything else we could think up. Proceed with caution - it's a very rough ride. Viewer discretion is advised :)
> 
> There are no pairings.

_No one was born to be a servant or a slave._

_Who can tell me the colour of the rain?_

(The Power of One, _Sonata Arctica)_

 

It was three years since Doctor Gregory House had disappeared. He had just walked away from his old life, from the people who knew him. They had kept looking for him every day to start with, but after a while they lost hope. The man they had known was gone. They had to accept that.

The prestigious medical conference was held in New York. Most of the people attending it were staying in the hotel where the conference was being held. Foreman and Chase attended as representatives of the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital diagnostic team. At one time it had been a world famous - and controversial - team. Now Foreman led the team, and although he had been unable to fill House's shoes the team still kept Diagnostics operating, against all the odds.

Wilson was also attending the conference. As always he felt House's loss keenly - seeing Foreman in his friend's place still hurt every day. His life had been consumed for a long while by trying to find House - not wanting to lose another man like he had Danny. His work had suffered until finally Cuddy had gently put her foot down. Wilson had to decide whether he wanted to get on with his own life or not. He'd tried to put House behind him, and seek a new life but secretly still held out hope that one day he would find his friend again.

After the day's presentations all three hit the bar of the hotel.

A slave cleaned one of the many bathrooms at the luxurious hotel. He was weary from a long day's work - the latest in a succession of long days. Every bone in his body ached and the wound in his leg was an agony. He wore a pair of sports shorts, and a white t-shirt with the Rent-A-Slave logo on back and front, both items both heavily stained and torn. A pair of frayed sandals were on his feet, and a heavy black metal collar sat around his neck - reminding him of what he had become. His body was completely shaven of all hair, including his face and head. He was as bald as any of Wilson's cancer patients. On his right cheek he bore a tattoo - the SAC initials - marking him as a slave - as property. As worthless human shit.

It was only seven at night, but the conference at the hotel was filling the bar with people in a partying mood. Many of them were already drunk, and several had made their ways to the bathroom - and found the slave cleaning there a handy source of additional entertainment. He'd already been urinated upon and worse.

He was scrubbing the urinals when he heard them come in. There were three of them, their voices raised in a laughing conversation. He knew each one. All three. His heart pumped harder and adrenaline surged through his veins. Desperately he kept his head turned away and stayed on his knees, scrubbing, willing them not to see him.

He knew they weren't the kind of people who would want to hurt a slave for sport. If he kept working they'd ignore him. They wouldn't take any more notice of a slave than a piece of furniture. If he just kept quiet. They'd ignore him.

They were already drunk, talking about Chase's innate ability to make women fall in love with him. They were drunk and laughing... happy. They had forgotten about him, and moved on. He wasn't surprised. He had been an ass to these people, to everyone; his absence would have been felt only as a relief.

He let out a silent sigh of relief when his old friends went to wash their hands after pissing in the urinals he had just cleaned. They hadn't seen him, and they weren't going to see him. Shortly his supervisor was going to pick him up and take him back to the building where he would sleep after eating his daily portion of slave chow. The slaves went to sleep early so they could wake in time to start another twelve hour day.

It was Wilson who screwed everything up of course. It was Wilson who saw an orthopaedic cane in the mirror and a thin but tall man kneeling besides it, cleaning. The slave heard footsteps walking towards him and swallowed hard again, his heart beating fast, his blood pressure accelerating with each second that passed. He kept his gaze down and continued his work, pretending to be mopping the floor.

An idea popped into the slave's head. He wasn't going to be House. He was going to be just a mind wiped slave, another piece of furniture. A body with no soul to come back to it.

"Hey, boy, look at me," he heard Wilson say softly. The slave wiped his face blank of expression and looked up at Wilson. He could see the horror in Wilson's eyes when he looked back at him. Wilson collapsed on his butt on the ground. His mouth opened but no sound came out. When the slave looked past Wilson he could see Foreman and Chase watching, confused. Then they stared at the slave, their eyes reflecting their recognition. This was their former boss.

Chase remained frozen to the spot while Foreman advanced on the slave, his eyes never leaving him.

"House," he said, fear and doubt in his voice.

A shudder ran through the slave's spine. He hadn't heard that name in two years. He was just Greg, or a 'boy', or 'useless piece of shit', he wasn't House. He kept his blank expression against all the odds, and talked softly.

"Sir, this slave is called Greg, sir. I don't know any person called House. I am sorry, sir."

"He's been mind-wiped," Foreman said. He looked at Wilson, who was still sitting on the floor in shock. Wilson's eyes were wet with tears, a sight that pulled at the slave's heart. He held his blankness - they must never know.

He never thought that he would be so happy to see his supervisor appear in the entrance to the bathroom, an angry expression on his face.

Wilson couldn't seem to get his mind together. The sight of House, kneeling on the floor, with a collar around his neck had shocked him. The blank expression, and the realisation that he had been mind-wiped, that his brilliant mind was gone, had devastated him. For three years he had held out hope that he would see House again, that he would return to the hospital and resume his practise. Even after he assured Cuddy that he had moved on, and put the past behind him, he had still had a sliver of hope, deeply buried. Now he had found House and lost him again.

He looked up as he heard a sound at the door of the bathroom. A man in a uniform was standing there.

"What's going on here?" He asked, a scowl on his face as his gaze fixed on House.

Wilson watched, shocked, as the man went up to House and pulled on his collar, holding it tight. House's knees were lifted slightly off the floor and he made an agonised choking sound.

"Has this boy been bothering you, gentlemen?" The man was carrying a thin cane in one hand and he lashed out at House with it, still holding tightly to his collar. House yelped in pain, the sound strangled by the choking hold on his collar.

"Please, let him go. He didn't do anything..." Wilson got off the floor, exchanging shocked glances with Chase and Foreman. "Don't hurt him." Foreman moved towards the man but stopped when the man let go of House's collar.

House huddled into a kneeling position, his head hanging down - his breath coming in agonised gasps. Wilson's heart broke to see him trying to make him cowering and making himself as small as possible at the man's feet. What the hell had happened to him these last three years? How had they broken him like this?

"I'm sorry - I just slipped." Wilson said quickly, tearing his gaze away from House and focusing it on the man. "Your slave was trying to help me."

The man laughed and struck House again with the cane. House flinched away from him. "Boy thinks he's better than he is. Fancies himself as some sort of doctor. He's tried to 'help' people before." He laughed again and poked House with the cane. "What a joke - a slave doctor!" He kicked at House. "You, boy. Say you're sorry to these men. Do it properly or you'll get a thrashing tonight."

House hesitated and received another lash for his trouble. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled over to Wilson, pressing his lips to Wilson's shoe.

"This slave is sorry they bothered you, sir. Please do what you like with this slave."

Wilson couldn't find his voice for a moment. Then he shook his head. "I don't want you to do anything. I accept your apology."

He watched in shock as House repeated the performance, crawling over to both Foreman and Chase in turn and kissing their shoes. When he was done he returned to the man's side, still crawling.

The man unhitched a chain leash from his belt and clipped one end on to House's collar.

"You can do another two hours now for wasting my time. Get your lazy ass up off the floor and come on."

House struggled to his feet, his bad leg clearly hurting him. His head was still down and he didn't look at them as he was led out of the room.

The three men looked at each other in shocked silence. Then Wilson spoke.

"He knows who he is. We have to get him back. We can't leave him here. Somehow we need to help him."

Foreman looked at Chase, who nodded in agreement.

"Whatever it takes, Wilson, whatever it takes."

* * *

**Three years earlier**

He heard a familiar pair of Louis Vuitton high heels clicking rapidly towards him and accelerated his pace towards the door. It was already after five, and time to go home for him. His leg was killing him and he was looking forward to putting it up on the couch and numbing the hell out of it with booze and pills.

"House! House! Wait!" He heard Cuddy calling. He kept his head down and pushed on towards the door as fast as his three legs could carry him. He'd reached the almost safety of the parking lot before she caught up to him, grabbing his arm and yanking him off balance.

"What do you want? Sex? Sorry, done my quota for today. There might be an opening tomorrow - see Cameron, she keeps all my appointments."

"I need you to take a new case. Cameron told me you'd finished the last one."

"Yes, one case per week. My job is done. I'm going home."

"Patient is a four year old child. He's been sent to us from Princeton-General. They can't work out what's killing him. He needs you. He's deteriorating fast, he'll be dead by the morning when drag yourself in here. You can spare another few minutes for this kid - how much can that hurt?" She thrust the blue folder at him.

He took the folder reluctantly, flipping through the pages. "How much can a few minutes hurt? I've been here three days with my last patient. I'm not a fucking slave, Cuddy."

Cuddy looked around, as if she expected the SAC bogeyman to be lurking in the shadows.

"Don't even say it, House. I don't treat you like that. Those poor people..."

"You an abolitionist, Cuddy? Want to save their poor souls? Better watch out, don't want the SAC poking through your underwear drawer looking for collar shears." House had made his feelings on slaves pretty clear in the hospital - he didn't want to talk about that shit. He didn't want anything to do with them.

He tuned Cuddy's protests out and mulled over the symptoms. Annoying, itchy red marks on his chest, lung scarring not consistent with medication use, no food allergies. Maybe heavy metal toxicity? Explained the lungs, the itching and the swollen tongue and throat.

"Heavy metal toxicity," he declared, tossing the file back at Cuddy who fumbled but caught it.

"Heavy metal toxicity? He's four, House. How would he be exposed?"

"When I was four my neighbours were sucking paint off the walls. Of course, that could explain a lot of things about them..."

"But..."

"Talk with my team. Chase and Cameron are on call. Or they might be having sex in the janitor's closet. Lead poisoning is the most common. Test for that and do the food allergy tests again. I'm out of here." He opened his car door and got in.

"Chase and Cameron are together? And they're having sex in the hospital? House..."

He shut the door of the car and made gestures that indicated he couldn't hear a word that Cuddy was saying.

Then he drove off. A night of pleasant oblivion was waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Present Day**

His decision was made - he was going to 'buy' House. 

He couldn't forget the image of finding House, like that, so broken. On his knees wearing stained working clothes, and a black metal collar around his neck. His best friend, the friend who had diced so many times with death and disaster, and always won, was a slave. After the supervisor had dragged House away at the end of a leash - a leash! - Wilson had puked in one of the toilets that House had just cleaned. He’d spent the rest of the evening caught between utter shock and a frantic need to set things right.

Chase and Foreman had had to return to work, leaving Wilson alone in New York. He’d assured them that he wouldn’t be leaving without House.

The time for being shocked had passed - now he had to set his plan in motion and save his friend.

He parked his car at the headquarters of Rent-A-Slave in New York. He’d done some research on the company and learned that they both hired out slaves and also sold them to interested parties. 

He walked to the front desk trying to project an air of confidence; he knew these people were not going to sell House to him if they thought he was trying to help him. It was against the law for people to buy slaves for that purpose. He had to project an air of indifference. He was just buying a car, he told himself, there was no need to get emotional about it. 

There were no slaves in sight and the reception looked like any other reception in any other building. There was no sign of the trade in human lives carried out here. 

"How can I help you sir?" asked a female receptionist. She was young, with blond-red curly hair and big green eyes, a little skinny but Wilson thought she was hot....what House called his "Wilsonian" side was already kicking in, he really didn't need that at the moment.

"My name is James Wilson - Doctor James Wilson. I would like to buy a slave," he said awkwardly.

"Is this going to be your first slave, Doctor Wilson?" she asked politely but with a slight knowing smile. 

"Yes, my first one," he said, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck. 

"It´s okay sir, many people feel uneasy when buying their first one. You don´t have to be ashamed, slaves are useful tools if you know how to use them and discipline them. They are designed to be purchased and used after all." She sounded matter-of-fact, as if she was talking about someone buying a new dishwasher. "But I am afraid that the slave exhibition - that's where you can inspect the slaves - here is on Thursdays and Saturdays, and you also need a reservation to attend. They're very popular. We have no openings for next week but we can set you up for ---"

"Wait, wait ---" Wilson said, putting his hand up in a 'stop' gesture and interrupting the flow of words. "I don't need to attend an exhibition. I already know which slave I want to buy." He said firmly. "I know he works here."

The woman's eyes widened in surprise. "Well, that's... unexpected. Not a lot of people come here with their choice already made but it does happen occasionally. I suppose you've seen him somewhere on assignment and want him now? Do you have the number from his collar?"

"Er... no..." Wilson said, flustered. 

"Well, did you ask him his name? I need to find him in the system. We have a lot of slaves as I'm sure you realise."

"Gregory John House," Wilson said, his voice thick with emotion he didn't want this woman to hear. 

"He told you his surname? Slaves aren't supposed to have one." 

"I asked him, when he just said Greg I asked him what his surname used to be," Wilson explained hastily, tense with anxiety. He hoped he hadn't screwed things up. This had to work. He had to take House with him.

The woman was frowning at him. "You don't know this slave from his former life, do you? It's against our policy to sell them to anyone they used to know."

"No, no of course not. I just saw him when he was cleaning the bathrooms at the hotel and I er... wanted him for myself." 

"Well, do you have a physical description? I have twenty seven 'Gregs' in the system and we don't have their former names. Where did you see him exactly?"

"He's tall - more than six feet, has blue eyes, looked to be in his forties, maybe fifties, he has a limp. He was at the Four Seasons Hotel in New York during the medical conference that was there last week."

The woman pecked at her computer while Wilson held his breath. Finally she nodded. 

"Yes, I have him. You are fortunate; he hasn't been assigned anywhere today so he's working here. I'll call his supervisor to have him brought out to confirm he's the one you want, and then a sales clerk will take care of you. Take a seat over there, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson nodded and started walking but she called him back before he had gone far. "Doctor Wilson," she said, crooking a finger at him, beckoning him closer. "If you want that slave you need to have a better poker face, you need to convince them that you're just interested in buying a slave." She looked at him significantly and he nodded his understanding. 

"Thank you," he said softly but sincerely. 

________________________________________

It took only a short while for the sales clerk to appear and usher him into a small office. Once inside the office he saw his friend kneeling, naked, on the floor by the desk, with his head bowed and his hands shackled behind his back. A thin chain ran between the handcuffs and the collar around his neck. A large man, who must be the supervisor, was standing beside House, holding a thin cane. Fortunately he wasn't the man Wilson had seen abusing House in the bathroom of the hotel. 

"Please take a seat, Doctor Wilson." The sales clerk gestured to a comfortable chair in front of the desk. Wilson sat down, trying to appear at ease with the process of 'buying a slave'. He didn't look at House but was acutely aware of his nudity and the position he was in. Just kneeling like that must be agony on his leg. House would hate Wilson seeing him like this. 

"I understand you wish to buy this slave - known as Greg. It's uncommon for people to come here and ask for a slave by name. Before we proceed I need to know what has prompted this."

"I saw him and decided I would like to own him. Do I need another reason? A slave is a slave." He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "If you prefer I'll buy a different one. Or take my business elsewhere." It was a bluff of course; he was gambling that the company would jump at the chance to sell a slave in House's condition - at a no doubt inflated price.

"Not many people would choose a middle aged, disabled slave for themselves."

"He is appealing to me. I want to use this middle aged, disabled slave for sex. Is that what you want to know? I like them damaged." Wilson answered coldly, his eyes fixed on the young clerk. "Now, do you need to know anything else about my sexual preferences before you sell him to me? What sort of whips I like to use? How I'll make him scream?" He saw House flinch out of the corner of his eye but kept his face calm. He could explain everything when they were done here, and House was safely with him. House’s future depended on his ability to stay in character with these people.

The clerk smirked and glanced down at the kneeling slave. "I understand, sir. No, we don't need any further details. I'm sure this slave will be happy to fulfil your needs." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Wilson saw that they were titled 'Slave Ownership contract'. "Thomas here is one of Greg's supervisors. He will give you full disclosure on the slave and then if you wish to proceed you can read through the contract and sign if you accept the terms. We can supply a written report on the slave if you wish to wait a few days for it to be prepared."

"No, a verbal one is all I require."

The clerk nodded and gestured to Thomas to continue.

Thomas prodded House's shoulder with the cane. "Look up, slave." 

House looked up, his face devoid of expression.

"This slave - Greg - came here two years ago, straight from the Slave Administration Centre where he had undergone the usual processing. He was reported to be a class 5 - difficult - slave who required strict handling. Over the last two years he has become an excellent slave. He works hard, doesn't get distracted, and responds well to discipline. He can learn easy tasks and has shown signs that he might eventually be able to undertake some more complex tasks. "

"The slave came to us with a pre-existing injury to his right leg. He is mobile but walks with a limp - but can move quite quickly despite that. The injury seems to give him some chronic pain. We give him ibuprofen, 600 mg, each meal. Incidentally that provides a handy discipline tool - simply withdrawing the medication for a day or two encourages compliance. Sometimes even with the medication the pain can be extreme, and he needs to be restrained and gagged so he doesn't disturb the other slaves with his moaning. "

Wilson's stomach was twisting with this cold description of House's pain. Although he used to think that House exaggerated it for the sake of keeping up his constant supply of Vicodin Wilson knew that he'd be in agony without any medication at all. 

Thomas looked down at House. "Spread your legs, slave, let Doctor Wilson have a good look at you," he said, prodding House's groin with the cane. House quickly did so, exposing his genitals to everyone's sight. Thomas lifted his cock slightly with the cane. "He is fairly sensitive, sexually. Would you like me to get him to stimulate himself so you can see him fully erect? Or, if you prefer, you can do it yourself."

"No... no, that won't be necessary," Wilson said, struggling to maintain his composure. "I'm not particularly interested in _his_ pleasure. As long as he has an asshole and a mouth he will suffice."

Thomas laughed and the clerk smiled. "He has both of those all right. You won't go wrong with him there. I'd let you try him now but that is against policy."

"He's fine. I'll take him." Wilson perused the contract. "This all seems in order. How much do you want for this crippled, difficult, slave?"

"Standard price for our slaves is $30,000. We are prepared to offer a discount on this one due to his imperfections. He's a second after all, like a fridge with a dent in it." The sales clerk laughed at his own joke. "How about $25,000?"

"That will be fine." Wilson took out his checkbook. He didn't want to pay these creeps money for his friend. House wasn't a piece of furniture to be bought and sold - he was a person. He wanted to grab House and take off that damned collar and let him walk out of here with his head held high.

He handed over the check, not even blinking at the loss of a good chunk of his savings. House was worth a hundred times that. "Can I take him now, I'm a little anxious to get started... _experimenting_ with him." He saw House flinch and swallow hard. He felt terrible speaking about House like this but he was role playing - House would realise that. 

The clerk smiled. "Of course, Doctor Wilson, but procedure has to be observed. The handover has to be formalised at the police station. Thomas will transport your slave there in our van while we finish here."

Thomas tugged on the chain that bound House's hands to his collar. "On your feet, slave." 

House made a choking sound as the collar grabbed at his throat and then struggled to his feet. His eyes met Wilson's and Wilson was startled to see him looking defeated. Then he turned away and began limping towards the door, Thomas following closely behind him.

"It was a pleasure to do business with you, Doctor Wilson. I hope you enjoy your new purchase." The clerk held out his hand to shake Wilson's and Wilson took it with distaste. "If you wait in reception your tag will be brought out to you and also your copies of the paperwork. Then you are free to go and collect your slave from the police."

Wilson waited anxiously in the small area set aside for prospective purchasers and after a few minutes the receptionist called him over to the desk and handed him a round tag, made of metal and engraved.

_Owned by James Wilson_  
 _SAC-RSN 1106590_

He owned a slave.

He owned Greg House.

* * *

_**Three years earlier**_

"So how is our patient?" House asked cheerfully as he entered the diagnostics conference room. 

"What are you doing here? Thought you were going to take the weekend off?" Foreman asked. 

"If I answer that, is it going to help you diagnose this kid? Oh no! I guess not, let leave the small talk for my birthday party."

Foreman rolled his eyes and Chase ignored their conversation and just updated House with the latest test results on their patient.

"No evidence of arsenic, lead or mercury on the tox screen." 

House sat down, put his feet up on the conference room table and pulled his PSP out of his bag starting to play with it. He didn't look up. "Well, do the test again, but do it right this time."

"It´s not heavy metal poisoning,” Foreman said in a bored tone of voice. 

"Symptoms say it is," House said, concentrating as his on-screen avatar walked into a dangerous situation.

"Test says it isn't." Cameron said, walking into the room. 

"Then what are you going to believe, the tests or the symptoms? Do it again, what about food allergies Chase?"

"Dairy, grain, and legumes were all negative, but the kid had burning sensations in his feet while I was doing the allergy test... I had to give him gabapentin to stop the acute pain."

"Might have been nice if you'd mentioned the new symptom at the _beginning_ of the DDX." House dropped the game on the table and stood up, going over to the whiteboard to add it to the list. "Why were you withholding that little gem? Dramatic effect?" 

"Er... because we were going in order?" Chase answered tentatively.

"We don't go in order of intelligence in the DDX you idiot, otherwise you'd never get to speak. Symptoms have priority over Foreman's negative tests. Excruciating pain in the lower extremities is a new symptom." He threw down the marker and walked towards the door. "I'm going to go see the kid; maybe _he_ knows how to present his symptoms."

After he was gone the three fellows stared at each other. House was always rude and impossible to deal with, but this was setting a new standard even for him. 

"Okay, well someone got up out of the wrong side of the bed," Chase said, dropping into the closest chair with a sigh. 

"Or the wrong leg... “Cameron added, looking at the scrawled writing on the whiteboard.

"I thought he was taking the weekend off," Foreman muttered.


	3. Chapter 3

Present Day

There were two things he knew after the infarction.

The first one was that he was always going to be in pain. 

The second was that he would never walk normally again. He couldn’t run, or play sports. The hard won freedom of his adulthood had been cut short by lameness and pain. 

When he bought the motorcycle, it wasn’t because he was self-destructive – despite what Wilson might say – it was because it gained him a little bit of his freedom back again. When he was on a motorcycle the speed, and the wind hitting his body, the smell of nature at the sides of the road, all those things made him feel free, and made him smile. 

He had never thought that he could lose even more of what he had. Until he had been enslaved.

His first day at a Slave Administration Centre, his first day of processing, when they tattooed their sign on his face had made it clear that he was nothing now. Not a human being. Not any more. Now he was just a body – designed to be used. A body that could be fucked, or punished, or left to rot, at the whim of his owner. Free people could do whatever the hell they liked to him – and they often did. He didn’t even have the freedom of his own mind, because even that had been taken from him. All he knew now was fear. 

His father used to take him to see them, when he was a child and had done something wrong. ‘Look at those slaves, Greg. Look at what they are. One day that will be you’. Then he’d take him home and put a collar around his neck while he punished him. So he knew what it would feel like. 

It had been only a matter of time before the collar became real, and he became the slave his father had said he was. He knew that now. 

* * *

He was shaking with reaction when he was taken out of the office. He was both thankful that Wilson had found him, and bought him, and fearful that Wilson had found him and bought him. Wilson’s words had been chilling. House had treated Wilson like shit throughout their friendship, was this Wilson’s chance to get revenge? He could legally do whatever he liked to House now. House had been sold to him.

Thomas took hold of one of his arms, half supporting him and half dragging him back to the slave quarters. 

“Fucking useless slave, can’t believe someone was actually stupid enough to buy you. Thought we’d be stuck for you forever.” He let go of House’s arm and pointed to the pile of clothes in the corner of the cell. “Put those back on and be quick about it. Don’t want to keep the buyer waiting – he might come to his senses.”

House quickly put the clothes back on, glad to be covered up again even if the clothes were stained and smelly. They were given fresh clothes once a week and the week was nearly over. 

He was taken down a set of steps to the back door of the building where a van waited. He was roughly handcuffed and a hood was put over his head, cutting off both sight and most sound. Then he was grabbed bodily and half thrown face down into the back of the van onto the cold hard floor. He felt a chain being run from his handcuffs to a ring on the floor. Standard slave transport procedures.

He heard the muffled sound of the van door being slammed shut and Thomas taking a seat. Two heavy booted feet rested on the small of his back, keeping him in place throughout the short ride to the police station.

* * *

The handover at the police station happened quickly and efficiently. Wilson was taken to a small bare room, papers were signed and then House was brought out, a leash attached to his collar. He quickly knelt down next to the desk and bowed his head. Wilson noted with relief that he was at least clothed, even if it was in ill-fitting, stained, rags. 

"Well Doctor Wilson, that's all done. You can take your slave with you now. Officers from the SAC will come to your home shortly to inspect it, and make sure it is well prepared to house a slave." He looked at House for the first time. "Stand up, slave."

House stood and looked at the police officer. 

The officer frowned at him. "Bow your head. You have been a slave long enough to know that you don't look at people until they tell you to."

The message was clear, House was not 'people', the police officer was, Wilson was, House was not. He was just a slave.

House bowed his head but even that was not enough for the officer.

"I talked to you, slave. Acknowledge my order."

"Yes, sir. This slave is sorry, sir." House said quietly, his head still bowed submissively.

The officer was still frowning. He picked up a light cane that was lying on the desk and looked at Wilson. "With your permission, Doctor Wilson?" He said it with the air of expecting it to be granted. A mere formality - to gain permission from the owner before beating a slave.

Wilson stood frozen, realising what he was being asked. He wanted to scream a denial but he couldn't afford to raise suspicion. 

He raised a hand carelessly. "Of course."

The blow landed on House's buttocks, making a whipping sound that cut through Wilson. House flinched but otherwise held position and didn't raise his head.

"You're making a poor first impression on your new owner, boy." The officer said, and delivered another quick blow before replacing the cane on the desk. "I can have him taken out back and taught a proper lesson if you like, Doctor Wilson. No harm in starting the way you intend to go on."

"No, no, that won't be necessary," Wilson said hastily. "I've got my own canes at home." He just wanted to get House out of here. He looked around for the walking cane that House had been using in the hotel bathroom but didn't see it.

"No, he just came like that. They don't normally send them with any accessories," the officer answered when Wilson asked about it. 

Okay, so that was the first thing he'd have to buy when they got out of here.

"Do you have a leash for him?" The officer said, holding out his hand.

"No. What would I need a leash for? He's not exactly going to run off, he can barely walk without a cane."

"Well, you know you can't walk him out in public without one.” The officer sighed and rummaged around in a drawer, coming up with something that looked like a dog leash. “You can use this one; just drop it back into the station when you're done with it." 

Wilson took the leash gingerly and the officer looked up at a clock on the wall. "I've got to go, can you see yourself out?"

Wilson nodded numbly and then the officer shook his hand and left. 

Wilson and House stared at each other, alone for the first time. 

“House, I…” Wilson’s voice was shaking.

"Put the fucking leash on my collar so we can get out of here," House said, his voice quiet but desperate.

"I... I can't," Wilson said, his voice just as quiet, sounding more like the slave than House did. 

"You have to, it's the law. Don't be an idiot, you have to treat me like a slave or this isn't going to work. I don't want to get the crap whipped out of me because you don't know how to treat a slave." He rubbed at his ass where the cane had cut across it. "I've had more than enough whippings in the last two years..."

"I..." Wilson said and House grabbed the leash out of his hand. He clipped it into one of the d-rings of his collar and then handed the other end to Wilson. "Come on, it's just like walking a dog. Woof!" He looked at Wilson and Wilson could see the fear in his eyes. House was scared. He wasn't safe here.

Wilson made himself grasp the leash and he walked towards the door, feeling House following behind him at the end of the leash. He walked slowly, at House's pace, and tried to forget that he was walking his best friend as if he was a dog. 

Wilson felt that all his eyes were upon them as they walked out but nobody stopped them and when they emerged out into the sunlight and open air he breathed a sigh of relief. He felt House freeze behind him and turned to see his friend staring around him. 

"The car is this way," Wilson gestured, and House covered up the moment with his usual snark which lifted Wilson's heart to hear.

"You couldn't have parked closer? Cripple, here."

When they finally reached the car Wilson opened the front passenger door and House shook his head. 

"I go in the back," he said, opening that door and getting in. "You can take the leash off but you're supposed to put a hood on me. Have you got one?"

Wilson shook his head. "No, I didn't stock up on bondage equipment, House! You're not really my slave. I don't need any of that stuff." He was beginning to realise though that he hadn't thought all this through. He'd only wanted to rescue House; he'd given little consideration to what came next. 

"There's a piece of paper that says you do, and your name is on the tag on my collar. You're responsible and if you fuck up I'm the one getting whipped and thrown back in the pound. This isn't 'let's pretend', Wilson."

"Forgive me for trying to rescue you." Wilson went round to the other side of the car and got in the driver's seat - slamming the door shut.

House winced at the noise and the anger in Wilson's voice. He immediately softened his tone. "I'm sorry, Wilson. I just... you can't stuff this up okay? For either of us."

Wilson could count on one hand the number of times House had said sorry to him over the years. When he looked in the driver's mirror he could see his friend sitting there, a heavy collar around his neck, hair cropped back to his skull and a slave tattoo on his cheek. He looked scared.

"Tell me what I need to do," he said. "To keep you safe."

"Get us out of here to start with, and then," he heard House swallow heavily. "You need to buy some equipment."

* * *

The slave supplies warehouse was tucked discreetly down an alley in a dingy part of Princeton. Wilson clipped House's leash back on his collar, this time without an argument, and led him into the building. As soon as they crossed the threshold he saw House's demeanour change. His head dropped and he put his hands behind his back and stood demurely by Wilson's side.

A sales assistant came over to them.

"What can I help with you today, sir?" She addressed Wilson, her eyes flicking over House as if assessing him. "Maybe a new collar for your slave? Or some cuffs? "

"I've just bought him - I need everything I guess? The SAC is going to come out and inspect my premises... "

The woman nodded confidently, obviously pleased with the prospect of a large sale. "Of course, sir. Your first slave?"

Wilson blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. House would have rolled his eyes at his obvious flirting if he wasn't playing the part of the dutiful slave.

"Yes, I'm sorry - I'm a bit inexperienced."

"I can help you with that. First, you need a hood. You shouldn't be transporting him without one." She led the way to a display rack of black hoods. "Head up, slave."

House lifted his head and she selected a hood and dropped it over him. There was a small air hole but otherwise it covered his whole head.

"That will do for transport. Easy to put on and take off. You can attach it to his collar with a chain if he needs it often." She demonstrated. "We have other models with gags and devices that will remove all sensory input if you would like to see them?"

"Er... no, that will do for now. What else?"

She left the hood on House and fetched a set of cuffs and chains. "These are our own model. Strong enough to hold any slave. You can restrain him in a variety of positions using them. Take him over to that holding post and I'll show you."

In the middle of the store was a large steel post with ringbolts set in it. With House hooded Wilson had no choice but to lead him on the leash over to it. Once there the assistant cuffed his hands behind him and ran a chain from them to the post. Bending to his ankles she put a hobble chain in between them.

"As you can see they clip on and off easily. They also lock of course." She demonstrated. "There is also a chain to connect ankles and wrists. Although as your slave is lame that might impede him too much if you need him to walk." She frowned at House. "Close confinement is good punishment though. Slaves hate it. Talking of punishment what do you have?"

"What do I have?"

"Paddles? Crops? Whips?"

"I really don't think I'll be needing anything like that."

"You'll need something. You can't keep a slave without some way to discipline them. Even if your slave is well behaved it pays to give them a touch up now and then to remind them of what they are. The SAC inspectors will want to see that you have some disciplinary tools. We'll get you our basic start-up kit, it's good for beginners." She fetched a colourful plastic pack and removed the wrapping. "Two paddles - one with holes, a crop, a flogger and a small whip. You'll want to invest in some more whips when you're more experienced. They take a bit of skill to use but they are the most effective. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

House was still chained and hooded but Wilson could see him tense.

"No, that won't be necessary. Is that all?"

"Those are the basics. Have you got bedding and food for him? We have a jumbo sized pack of Slave Chow - it provides the slave with all essential nutrients. You should have some on hand for the inspection."

Wilson reluctantly purchased a large container of the chow. There was a picture on the front of a happy slave consuming the contents using only his hands. It looked like nothing more than dog food to him. He certainly didn't intend for House to eat it.

"You should look into getting a cage - it keeps the slave well confined. We have some nice fold-a-way models if you're short on space." She waved a hand to one wall where they were assembled. They appeared to be about the size of large dog kennels.

"I have a bed for him." Wilson said flatly. Surely she wasn't expecting a man of House's height to sleep in one of those tiny cages?

She frowned. "Most people advise against letting slaves use furniture. It sets a bad precedent."

Wilson needed to get out of there, right now. "I think it will be okay. Can you ring up my purchases?"

"Yes, sir. Do you require any sexual aids for him? We have a large range of dildos and cock cages as well as more exotic tools."

Wilson blushed. "No, thanks. I'm not... he's not... "

She nodded. "I understand sir, but even if you're not that way inclined you can rent him out to others. It's one way of earning some money back from your purchase."

Wilson just wanted to get out of there. He was aware of House still standing chained in the middle of the store, listening to every word of their conversation.

"Maybe another time. This will do for now."

The woman looked disappointed but nodded and removed the chains and hood from House, giving him a caressing pat to his genitals as she did so. House stared at the floor, not even reacting to her touch. She laughed. 

“He’s well trained anyway.”

“If you could just ring me up,” Wilson said, trying to get her to hurry – and move away from House. This whole thing was making him feel dirty, tainted. 

She bundled up the purchases and relieved Wilson of some more of his money. Giving the bags of equipment to House to hold she wished Wilson a good day and gave him a customer loyalty card. "We hope you'll consider us for all your future needs."

They left the store in silence. House on the end of the leash. Back in the car Wilson fingered the hood.

"I'm sorry, House."

House looked away. "Just do it, Wilson. I'm a slave. I'm used to it."

Wilson slipped the hood over his friend's head and they drove back to his apartment in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback scene in this chapter was written by Nikkythehippi

**Present Day**

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he finally shut the door behind House at his apartment. They'd made it. He'd successfully rescued House. 

"I can't believe you're here. It's been so long since you disappeared. What happened to you? What have you been doing, where have you been?" The questions rushed out before they'd even left the entryway. He had been in too much of a state of shock during the car trip to talk to him freely, but now they were safe he wanted to know everything. He wanted to know how House had ended up being a slave.

House just stared at him. His expression was shuttered, his eyes distant. "What have I been doing? I’ve been a fucking slave! You really want me to tell you all the crap I've been through? Believe me Wilson, you don't want to know."

"You need to talk about it..."

"No, I don't," House cut him off. “There’s one thing I don’t need to do and that’s ‘talk about it’. Ever.”

They both stood in silence for a moment before House sighed.

"It's not over, Wilson. You need to know that. You may have brought me here," he waved a hand at the apartment, "but it's not over. Not while this collar is on my neck. You have no idea. You should have left me where I was."

Wilson was horrified to hear him talking like that. "You can't be serious!"

"I'm just going to make your life fucking difficult. You can barely look at me, let alone do what you need to do to me." He turned and limped down the hallway to the living room. There he stopped and stared.

The baby grand piano from his old apartment in Princeton was there.

When House had disappeared Wilson had taken over the lease of his apartment, keeping the rent payments up. He held out hope that House would one day come back and need a place to live. After two years he’d had to face the reality that it wasn’t going to happen. He'd had most of House's possessions put into storage but the piano he'd had moved to his place. House would never have forgiven him if he'd let the piano rot somewhere. 

House went over to it and touched the gleaming surface. He carefully opened the lid over the keys and stared down at them, swallowing hard.

Wilson waited expectantly but House put the lid back down gently without touching the keys. He just stood there with his head hanging down. Then he limped down the hallway towards the guest bedroom.

Watching his awkward gait reminded Wilson of the one other thing he'd kept for House. He retrieved the spare cane he'd found in House's apartment and followed the other man down the hallway.

House had stopped at the door to the bedroom and was surveying it.

Wilson hadn't had chance to make the room up for House specifically - he hadn't been home since first seeing House, events had moved that quickly - but he always kept it ready as a guest bedroom. 

"This is where I'm sleeping?" House asked, his eyes riveted on the quite ordinary bed. 

"Yes, the linen is clean but let me know if you need anything else. I haven't had chance to get things ready. I want you to be comfortable here."

House turned to look at him and then his eyes flicked to the cane in Wilson's hand. Wilson held it out. House took it wordlessly, his fingers fitting over the curved wooden handle. 

"It's okay, House. Everything is going to be okay now," Wilson said. "You're home." He tentatively put a hand on House's shoulder, hoping to reassure him. Instead he felt House flinch away from him, as if expecting a blow. Wilson quickly dropped his hand and they stood in silence - a gulf lay between them that Wilson had no idea how to cross.

* * *

"Cuddy, are you back in Princeton?" Wilson asked, holding the cellphone in his left hand.

"Hi Wilson! Yes, I just got home tonight. I had a great trip, if you ignore my Mom and sister. What's up?"

"I need to see you."

"Okay, we can have lunch tomorrow at work, if I get out from under the mound of paperwork that is probably rotting on my desk."

"No, I need to see you now." Wilson said urgently. He couldn't carry this knowledge by himself any longer. He needed to talk to his friend. Cuddy would be able to help. 

"Can't it wait until tomorrow? I'm knocked out from the flight."

"It's about House," he said, lowering his voice.

"What? House? Did you find him?" Her voice was filled with excitement. Like himself, she'd never completely given up hope that she'd see him again. "Is he okay? Oh Wilson, don't tell me he's..."

"He’s alive, Cuddy. But I can't talk now. I'll meet you at Berlin," he said, naming a coffee-shop near his place that they sometimes went to. "I'll be there in twenty, okay? Wait for me."

When Wilson got there Cuddy was already there, waiting anxiously at a table. She plied him with questions and he waved his hands.

"I'll tell you everything; just give me a minute please." He quickly filled her in on the accidental meeting at the New York conference. Strange to describe meeting House in the bathroom of the hotel rather than attending the conference as the world famous doctor he was. 

"He's... he's a slave, Lisa. He has been for two years."

Cuddy stared at Wilson in shock, her clear grey eyes already shining with tears, her hand covering her mouth. 

"No... not _House._ He couldn't... he wouldn't..."

Wilson knew what she meant. House was the last person he could ever have seen becoming a slave. 

"At first he pretended he didn't know us, that he had been mind-wiped. Later on he told me he couldn't cope with the idea that we would see him like that. He just wanted us to go away and forget we’d ever seen him."

"What do you mean, 'later'? Did you talk to him again? Where is he? We have to get him back."

"He was 'working' for Rent-A-Slave in New York. I brought him yesterday - they were keen to sell him. A crippled middle aged slave isn't worth much apparently."

"You have him?"

Wilson nodded. "Yes. He's at my apartment." 

"That's brilliant, Wilson. Now you can free him."

"No, I thought the same but it's not allowed. House was given a minimum sentence of seven years - he's been a slave for two, he has to stay enslaved for another five before he can be freed."

"Seven years? Shit, Wilson. What the hell did he do?"

"I could barely get it out of him; he doesn't want to talk about it. He's ashamed of what happened. I had to piece it together and I think I still don’t know the half of it.” Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. House was really reluctant to say anything at all about those missing three years. The couple of days he’d been at Wilson’s apartment he’d mostly spent staring out the window.

“After you... after what happened he just took off. Left all his stuff behind as you know, got on his motorcycle and disappeared. He told me he moved around a lot and lived off his savings. He couldn't get his Vicodin legally without using his real name and he couldn’t do that. So he bought Vicodin illegally, and maybe other drugs as well, he wasn't very clear on that. The cops busted him when he had a big stash; he was convicted of dealing and sentenced to seven years enslavement."

"He could have contacted us; we would have gotten him a better lawyer, a deal, something!"

Wilson shrugged. "That's what I told the idiot. You know how he is - he stuck his head in the sand and pretended it wasn't happening until it was too late."

"I need to see him -he's at your apartment?" Cuddy stood up, in a hurry to go and see him. Maybe she could do something to help.

"Yes, but... he doesn't want to see you, Cuddy. He doesn't want to see anyone. He's barely tolerating me seeing him like that."

"Like what?"

"Like... like a slave."

"Well, that's stupid. It's been three years, Wilson. I need to see him. I need to talk to him." She found her voice breaking and Wilson hugged her tight. 

"I know it's hard, Cuddy. But House has lost everything. All his possessions, his career, his freedom, everything. He's been trained to be a slave. He's been told he doesn't have any human rights, that he isn't a human being anymore. He's a slave - he's just property. What he went through at the Slave Administration Centre I can't begin to guess. There are scars... so many scars, Cuddy." His own voice filled with tears. "He needs time. He can't even look me in the eye. He's ashamed of what he's become. I think... I think he would almost have preferred that I never found him."

He looked up and out of the window and his eyes widened. A SAC response vehicle was driving down the road. As he watched it pulled up outside his apartment and a squad of officers piled out.

"Oh, shit!" He let go of Cuddy and ran for the door, Cuddy following close behind him as they ran up the road to Wilson's apartment.

* * *

 **Three Years Ago  
**  
Their patient was in the pediatric wing. The bright colors and happy clown faces that were painted on the walls made a sharp contrast to the sick child, lying in a bed in a single room. The child's parents were seated by his bedside, the mother was holding the boy's hand - the father was sitting a little bit back from the bed. His arms were crossed and he was leaning back in the chair, a bored expression on his face.

Both adults looked up as House entered.

House ignored the parents' surprised looks as he threw the door open and walked over to the sleeping child. House would have been sleeping too, if it hadn't been for Cuddy's persistence in getting him on this case. The least the kid could do was be awake long enough for House to ask him some questions.

“Who are you?” Asked the boy's mother in a tired but concerned voice. She instinctively put a hand out to stop him getting near her child.

House glanced at her for a moment and then back down to the child. "I'm just a figment of your imagination. Sitting near bedsides for hours on end can lead to hallucinations." He tapped the bed rails with his cane. "Wake up, need to ask you some questions."

The boy let out a moan of pain as he stirred. The father got up from his chair and moved towards the bed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

House looked at the man in faked confusion, “Well... I thought I was waking the patient up so I could figure out what is killing him, but if you'd rather I didn't then we can forget all about this and I can get back to my soaps." He gave the man a hopeful look. “All you have to do is tell Doctor Cuddy that you'd rather not have me on the case and poof.... I'm gone. People do it all the time,” he reassured him. "And what's one kid's life after all? You've probably got some spares at home."

“Brad,” the woman said reaching an arm out to him but stopping just before touching him. "If he can help we should let him.

Brad was glaring at House like he'd rather hit him than talk to him. He looked at his wife and then threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Do whatever you want. I’m sure you know best.” His voice was heavily sarcastic as he said the latter and Claire looked nervous. After looking at Brad for reassurance and receiving none she turned to House. "This has been hard on all of us; none of us have gotten much rest. This is the first time Timothy has been able to sleep for more than half an hour,” she said giving her son a sympathetic look and then looking back at House. “My name is Claire, who are you?”

“You can call me Doctor House, or God - either is fine. I'm your son's doctor."

There was a sound from the bed and House looked down at his patient. Timothy had woken up. He was obviously in pain, but he didn't cry out like most children would. He was three years old; he shouldn't be lying there stoically enduring the pain without complaining.

"Hey, kid - how does your throat feel?" He asked.

"His name is Timothy," Brad said. "If you're his doctor why haven't we seen you before now? Where the fuck have you been?"

"I try to avoid seeing patients as much as possible - it makes me unhappy. When I'm unhappy I start ordering all kinds of crazy test. Ask my last patient in room B604 if you don't believe me. Now, if you don't mind I was talking to your spawn here." He turned to the child again, observing how he watched them with wary eyes, but still didn't speak. "Timothy, does your throat hurt?”

Timothy glanced at his parents and then back at House. "My chest hurts,” he said softly.

House nodded, "I know about your chest, but what about your throat? Does it hurt to talk?”

Timothy looked at House with wide eyes, “No, sir.”

House's frowned. He turned to Claire. "He's not whining and complaining about the pain like most kids his age would be. Is that normal for him?"

Claire seemed to think about it some, “Well when he was a baby he cried about everything but in the last year he's really grown up. He hardly ever makes a fuss about anything,” she said with a small, proud smile that quickly faded. "Why? Is it important?"

House looked at the father. "Most children his age, and most people, verbalize pain - it's a natural response."

“I didn't raise my son to be a cry-baby,” Brad answered in a calm neutral tone, but his eyes were hard as he stared at House.

House felt himself tensing as he wondered how the man had 'raised' his son. He noticed that the man was in great shape with cropped hair, intense eyes and the air of a fighter. “Which branch did you serve in?” he asked casually.

“How did you know...” Claire began to ask, surprised, but was abruptly cut off by her husband.

“Marines in Afghanistan for two tours, six years total,” Brad said with pride. “Have you served?”

House smirked, he'd found what the man loved and now he was going to see how Brad handled it when someone diminished it. “No, I had a brain and decided to use it rather than follow orders like a toy soldier."

Brad stood up gritting his teeth. "You're a coward! While you were hiding behind your books at some nice college brave men were fighting for your freedom." He eye was twitching and his hands were balled into fists. His wife put a hand on his forearm but he shrugged her off.

“You sound like my dad; he was in the Marines too. He's a very tough, brave, and patriotic man but just between us he isn't the sharpest tool in the shed,” House said with a grin. “He can't do math in his head or write an essay, but he can kill just about anything. Seriously, the man would hunt bears with a bow. He was the perfect little toy soldier.”

Brads face was red with anger, “Your cocky ungrateful sack of crap, you'd speak about your own father who served to protect his country, to protect _you_ like that!” he said taking a step towards House. “I ought to show you just how a marine fights!”

“Brad, don't, not now,” Claire pleaded trying to hold him back, “It's not important.”

Brad turned to her, “What did you say to me?” he barked at her with a warning glare.

House had the reaction he had been aiming for. He turned away from Brad and watched Timothy whose body was trembling as his father's voice rose. He was taking quick, panicked breaths. His was scared of his father's anger. House knew how that felt.

House looked back to see Brad and Claire arguing. “Are any of your family or friends in the medical field?” he asked as the man let go of the hold he had on his wife's thin wrists.

Brad turned to him again as his wife drew away from him. Her cheeks were reddened and wet with tears. "Why the hell do you want to know?"

“That's a 'no' then,” House said with a shrug, “I'm not surprised.”

Brad puffed out his chest, “Actually my father is a veterinarian, you bastard,” he answered. “I helped him ever since I was ten and still am while I'm getting my degree in business management. So how does that fit with your idea that everyone who served this country is an idiot?”

House kept the smile off his face; the man had given him everything he needed to prove what he was already thinking. There was no doubt in House's mind that this man was abusing his son and even if the boy's hospital records didn't prove it he would bet money that if they did full body scans they were going to find evidence of past injuries. Injuries that hadn't been treated at a hospital. After that all that would be left was to find out what the father was doing, or using, to make him so sick. 

"Most people are idiots," House answered, replacing Timothy's chart. The child was still watching him and he held out his fist to him. Timothy's eyes were wide as he stared at him, and then he tentatively put his fist out as well. House bumped it gently and was rewarded by a genuine smile.

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Claire asked anxiously.

"Not yet, but we will." House stared straight at Brad. "Then we can help him."


	5. Chapter 5

**Present day**

By the time he reached his apartment the door had been kicked in and there were several SAC officers yelling at House to ' get the fuck down, now, slave!'. He was held back from entering by one of them but he was just able to see House lying on the floor. The men tore at his clothes, ripping them off his body and held his face to the ground as they cuffed his hands behind him and ran a chain from them up to his collar. When he was helpless they ran gloved hands all over him, including spreading his ass cheeks and jamming a probe up inside him. When they were finished they picked him up bodily and stood him up, face jammed against a wall. One officer held him in that position. Wilson could hear House's breath coming in agonised gasps.

"Stop! Don't hurt him!" Wilson yelled and he was finally allowed in the room, a horrified Cuddy on his heels.

"This your slave, sir?"

"Yes. I... I just bought him a couple of days ago. Why are you doing that to him?"

"Slave was alone in the house, and not restrained. We came around to inspect the premises and saw him through the window, playing your piano. Didn't know what had happened to his owner."

"Nothing! I just went for coffee with a friend."

"The law is that you secure the slave if you're leaving. Chain him up. Slaves are not to be left unattended and unrestrained in residential premises at any time."

"I didn't know." Wilson swallowed down his anger at House's treatment and struggled to look repentant. "I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

"Slave should have told you." The officer went over to House and yanked his head back. His fearful eyes met Wilson's and then widened when he saw Cuddy staring at him. "You piece of dirt - getting your owner in trouble like this. Well - you know what's coming to you."

He looked around and pointed to Wilson's couch. "Put him over that," he said to one of his men.

House was dragged over to the couch and forced over the arm until his face was smashed into the cushions and his naked ass was on display to them all. The officer kicked at his legs until he spread them widely.

"Got your own cane?" The officer asked Wilson.

"No. Look, this isn't necessary. It wasn't his fault."

"It was both of yours. But I can't cane you." He unclipped a long thin cane from his belt and rested it against House's twitching buttocks. He tapped it lightly a couple of times and Wilson could see the flesh tightening in anticipation of the blows to come. His eyes were drawn to the scars that he'd only glimpsed before. Thin white lines, littering House's back and ass. He'd been caned before, many times. 

"Slaves are scum, Doctor Wilson. They're criminals and you can't trust them. They need discipline." The officer drew the cane back and whipped it through the air to slash at House's ass. Wilson flinched at the sound it made when it connected with the flesh. An angry welt immediately appeared. House gasped but otherwise made no sound of protest. 

"Count the strokes, slave." The officer said, dragging the cane back over the red mark, causing House to flinch away. The officer cuffed him on the shoulder. "Stay still." 

"One, sir." House said, his voice hoarse.

The officer turned to Wilson. "If you don't discipline him, we will." The cane came down for another blow. 

As Cuddy and Wilson watched House received six strokes of the cane. Each stroke caused a red line to appear and the last two blows brought drops of blood along the line. The officer stayed calm throughout, as if this was routine. He lectured Wilson on his responsibilities as a slave owner between each one. From what Wilson could gather his responsibility was to be as brutal as possible to his slave.

When it was finally over House was released from the couch to collapse on the ground, his breath coming in heaving gasps. His whole body was trembling in pain. 

"Thank me." The officer placed a boot on House's naked thigh, dangerously near to his scar. "For disciplining you."

House dragged himself to a humble kneeling position, one that must have caused agony to both his leg and the wounds on his ass.

"Thank you, sir, for teaching this slave."

The officer put one booted foot out in front of House. "Kiss it."

House lowered his lips to the boot and kissed the surface. Wilson heard Cuddy crying behind him and was torn between doing the same and tackling the SAC officer to the ground.

"Good boy.” The officer bent down and patted House on the head, as one might a dog that had learnt its lesson. "Now get back over the couch while we check out your master's place and see if he'll be allowed to keep you."  
He watched as House dragged himself over to the couch and resumed his former position, head down in the cushions and tortured ass on display. The officer gave a quick smack to the worst of the welts and then turned to Wilson.

"Please show us the rest of the apartment, Doctor Wilson. As you are aware there are certain requirements that must be met if you are to keep this slave here." 

Wilson looked at House, lying draped over the arm of the couch, naked, six vivid red lines slashed across his buttocks, dried blood on the ends of some of them. With an effort he dragged his attention away and forced his feet to take him in the direction of the hallway.

"Where would you like to see?"

"First, let’s see the place where the slave sleeps."

Wilson winced at the way he said it. He wasn't expecting House to have a bedroom. Was he expecting a sheet dropped on the floor of the kitchen so that House could sleep besides the dishwasher? Maybe a cage or a dog basket for him to curl up in at night?

With a sinking heart he led them towards House's room.

"This is the room the slave sleeps in," he said, as harshly as he could.

The officer and two of his offsiders crowded into the room, their eyes wide. 

The youngest officer laughed. "The slave's room is larger than mine. Are you his owner or are you his?"

"That's enough, Harris!" The older officer snapped. "I'm sure Doctor Wilson has an explanation for this."

He turned to Wilson. "I apologise for my partner's remark. I am wondering why your slave sleeps in a room that is made for people. Slaves are not supposed to use furniture, let alone furniture like this. Your slave is used to a mat on the floor - that is all he needs."

Wilson had had enough of these people, coming into his home and treating House like dirt. He decided he had to stand up for himself. 

"I really don't care what other people do with their slaves. This is my home, he is my slave, and I will decide what he needs. My slave is crippled as I'm sure you've noticed. I want him to do a full day's work, every day, so I need him to sleep off the floor and on a bed that will leave him able to move in the morning."

The officer regarded him sceptically but then nodded. "Okay, the bed can stay, but the other furnishings must go. If there is a smaller room available he should be put in it."

After a tour of the rest of the apartment they came back to the living area, where House was still bent over the arm of the couch. Cuddy was standing nearby, still with a shocked expression on her face. She was looking anywhere but at House. 

The SAC officer who had stayed in the living room was holding something up. He looked at his superior, an eager expression on his young face.

"Sir, I found this in the slave's clothing." 

Wilson realised with a sinking feeling that he was holding up a bottle of Vicodin - the one that he'd obtained for House yesterday. House had been wearing an old pair of Wilson's sweats, and the bottle had no doubt been in the pocket of those.

The older officer took it off his junior, examining it closely.

"You prescribed these for the slave?" 

Wilson nodded casually. "Yes, he has a pre-existing condition as you've noticed. He experiences incapacitating chronic pain for which he was on medication at Rent-A-Slave."

"Did you let him keep these on him? Or did he steal them while you were out?"

Which was the better answer? Wilson realised belatedly that slaves probably weren't allowed to keep pills on them. But stealing them would be even worse. 

"I told him to keep them in his pocket and take them three times a day," he said. "Is that wrong?"

The officer sighed. "I don't think you understand what you are dealing with here, Doctor Wilson. This here," he indicated House with a sweep of his arm, "is a slave. A criminal. You can't trust him to wipe his own ass let alone take medication on a schedule. He cannot keep those pills on him. You need to give them to him personally. Have him open his mouth and put the pill on his tongue. Check his mouth afterwards to make sure he swallowed it. Like you would a dog. And as it's only pain medication you can also use them for discipline. Withhold them if he misbehaves." He passed the bottle to Wilson. "Don't give him anymore today. There's no point caning them and then letting them take something for the pain. By the morning he should be ready to be more obedient."

Wilson took the bottle and nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Cuddy and he shot a warning glance at her. He could see she wanted to intervene but they had to pretend to go along with all this lunacy. For House's sake. 

"Is there anything else?" he asked, hoping there wasn't. He wanted these people out of his house, and he wanted to check on House. 

"What about food, what are you feeding him?" Harris, the officer who had been reprimanded in the bedroom asked. "They should only be fed a plain diet, with occasional treats for good behaviour."  
"I have a jumbo pack of Slave Chow in the kitchen, it's in that corner," Wilson indicated the direction with a wave of his hand. "One scoop in the morning, one at night." 

With an effort Wilson made himself move to House, and ran a hand through his head. He felt House shudder and hoped that his friend realised why he was doing this. "If I'm pleased with him he can have the scraps off my plate. You enjoy that, don't you, Greg?” There was a pause and then House answered in a quiet voice. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Good boy," Wilson said, still patting House's hair.

The older officer eyed him narrowly. "Well, this is mostly in order. Your chains and cuffs are good. You'll need a restraint harness for your car and bars on the window. We will give you a week to comply and then come and inspect again."

"Yes officer, I've already made arrangements for the bars."

"And don't forget - he must be restrained when you're not here. You can't let him roam around by himself. He might escape and hurt someone - a neighbour, or a child."

"Greg, look at me," Wilson said sternly and House twisted his head around to look. "What did I tell you before I left the house this morning?"

"To wait in my room, sir. You were going out for ten minutes, sir." 

"And what did you do instead?"

"I left my room and came into the living room. I started to play the piano, sir. This slave is sorry, sir. It won't happen again, “House said, playing his part well. He sounded like a scared slave.

"You can bet it won't. Next time you won't be sitting for a month - and not just because I'll cane your ass black and blue."

"It won't, sir."

"So, we're done here?" Wilson asked and the officer nodded. He went to House and roughly unlocked the chains that still bound him, handing them off to one of his men and telling House to stay put.

He gestured to his men and they trooped out of the house.

The officer in charge paused at the top of the stairs, as his men went to the truck.

"It's a good act, Doctor Wilson. But I don't believe for a minute that you're the sort of man who'd own a slave without an ulterior motive. If you've bought this slave to give him an easy life then you're preventing him from being punished the way he should be. If we can prove that we'll take the slave in a heartbeat, and you'll be up before the court. So if you have something to say, say it now."  
Wilson didn't say anything and the officer nodded. "We'll be keeping an eye on both of you. Goodbye, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson watched them go with mixed feelings of relief and dread. This whole thing was turning out to be a lot more difficult than he could ever have anticipated. For one moment he wanted to stay out here and not go back inside and face what waited for him in there. Instead he took a deep breath and went back into the apartment, closing the door firmly behind him. For the time being, at least, they were safe.

House was standing up from the position he had been in, Cuddy was hovering behind him - one hand half raised, as if she wasn't sure whether she should offer support or not. House's right leg was visibly trembling.  
Wilson was there, inserting one shoulder under House and helping him to lie down on his side on the couch. House stiffened against him but allowed the help. Wilson grabbed a throw rug from the side of the couch and quickly threw it over him, covering his nakedness up. House stared straight ahead, his body trembling in reaction. 

"House, I'm so sorry..." Cuddy said. "If I'd known what would happen... I never would have... "

House couldn't meet her eyes. He stared at the surface of the blanket, curling in on himself and turning his head away. He didn't speak.

"Maybe you should go," Wilson said. He knew House wouldn't want her to see him like this. She'd already seen too much.

"I need to... “she trailed off and Wilson wondered what she needed to do. To fix this? Their friend was a broken slave - and had to remain one for years. There was no fixing this. All they could do was try and give House a little dignity.

"I need to treat those wounds. Please leave Cuddy. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"But..."

"Please Cuddy, just leave. There's nothing you can do." His eyes met hers. For House, he said silently and she glanced at their friend, still curled on the couch and nodded. 

"If you need anything, anything at all, call me."

She went reluctantly and Wilson turned back to House.

"You should give me back. I'm only ever going to cause you problems." House said, his voice hollow, his eyes averted. "You might even get a refund."

"NO!" The last thing he was going to ever do was give House back to the people who had done this to him. He'd be whipped himself before he ever let that happen. "You're never going back. I promise you that, House."

He regarded his friend. He needed to examine House's wounds and then get him cleaned up. He wanted to get House away from the couch and from the memory of what had just happened so he urged him to his feet - still wrapped in the blanket - and supported him as they went to House's bedroom.

"Lie down and I'll take a quick look," Wilson said, "and then you can take a shower."

House laid face down on the bed and let Wilson remove the blanket. His compliance was yet another sign that this was not the old House that Wilson was used to.

The old lash marks stood out starkly against his pale skin. Wilson bit his lip as he looked at them. House had been whipped, many times and soundly. What else had happened to him?

First things first, he grabbed the Vicodin and gave House a couple of pills - that would at least take the edge off the pain. Then he put some gel on the welts on House's ass. It would help heal and also soothe the burn from the cuts but House wouldn't be sitting comfortably for a while.

Wilson worked quickly, keeping his touch professional. It wasn't the first time he'd seen House naked, but the circumstances were bizarre. His friend had been utterly humiliated in front of him. There was nothing Wilson could say that would make that better. 

When he was finished Wilson tidied the first aid kit away and went in search of some more of his old clothes. When he returned he was dismayed to see that House hadn't moved while he was gone, not even to cover himself.

"Here," he said briskly, "put these clothes on after you take a shower. I am going to cook some pasta for dinner." He left the room, his heart breaking for his friend.

* * *

Once he was alone House dragged himself off the bed. He'd been told to shower so he needed to do it, although all he wanted was to lie on the bed, covered in the blanket and pretend nothing had happened.

In the shower he ran the water as hot as he could tolerate it and scrubbed himself as hard as he could, trying to rid his skin of the touch of those men. Their hands had been all over him, and it had all taken place in front of his friends. What Wilson and Cuddy had witnessed... he'd never wanted them to see anything like that - even if it hadn't been as bad as many of the things that had happened to him over the last two years. They weren't used to it. They still saw him as 'Greg House' not the slave he was. 

The wounds on his ass stung as the water hit them and his tears of pain mingled with the hot water of the shower until he couldn't tell one from the other.

Wilson's old clothes fitted poorly, the sweatpants were short, and the t-shirt hung off him. One thing slavery was good for was losing weight. House was a shadow of his former size. Still they covered up his former nakedness, and they felt better against his skin than the coarse slave clothes he'd worn. A hot shower and fresh clean clothes - luxuries he hadn't had for two years.

As he walked into the kitchen he imagined for one moment that he was just hanging out with Wilson again, like they had so many times before. They'd have a few beers and watch the game on TV, and then in the morning they'd go to work at PPTH. 

The illusion didn't hold. He could feel the heavy, cold, metal collar locked tightly around his neck, and the humiliating tag hanging from it. The tag that marked him as Wilson's property - not his friend, but his property. He was marked as an animal would be - so he could be returned to his owner if he strayed. So that everyone would know who owned him. 

He took a seat at the table, hissing when his ass made contact with the hard surface of the chair. He composed his expression - he wasn't going to show his pain to Wilson, or ask for a cushion.

Wilson put a plate in front of him and then sat down with his own and started eating. House stared at the food - waiting for the order to eat. Slaves didn't eat without express permission. 

Wilson stopped eating and looked at him, puzzled. "House? Aren't you hungry? You like pasta don't you?" Then understanding dawned over his face. "House, you don't have to wait for me to give you an order. I told you, you're not a slave here."

The hell I'm not, House thought. He didn't say anything aloud - just nodded at Wilson and took up his fork clumsily, eating slowly, and enjoying eating real food and not the Slave Chow that had been his only meal for the last two years. He was conscious of Wilson's unease as he tried to act like everything was normal. Wilson hadn't come to terms with what House was now - a slave, a piece of dirt, less than a human being, even less than a fucking house pet. At least pets were valued by their owners. 

"Why did you talk to Cuddy?" asked House quietly still eating his food. Wilson was struck again by how quiet he was now - the spark that used to light him up was gone, only occasionally showing in glimmers. 

"She needed to know, she was worried like hell about you disappearing. She's your friend, House. She never stopped looking for you, not for a single day." Wilson didn't tell him that he needed to talk to someone, to share the burden of knowledge, if only for a few minutes. Wilson couldn't do this by himself. 

"She doesn't need this, Wilson. You should have asked me first. You saw how she was crying during that fucking pathetic scene. This is too much for someone like Cuddy. She'll feel guilty and we'll all drown in her tears," House said angrily but Wilson could see fear in his eyes. House was scared of talking like this to his owner. Wilson felt sick. Is that how House would come to see him?

"I couldn't hide this from her forever House! What do you want me to do? Keep you hidden in this apartment for the next five years?"

"Yes! I don't want her to see what they've done to me. You know Cuddy; she'll want to fix it. She can't handle this sort of reality, Wilson." House wasn't meeting his eyes and Wilson's heart broke for him - again. 

"House, seeing that was hard for me too. I didn't mean for her to walk into a scene like that - I had no idea the SAC were coming. But you shouldn't be worrying about how we feel about it. You were the one being hurt. What they did to you..."

"... was nothing. Shit, if you think that's bad... If you think that hurt me..." House stopped, choking up. He shook his head. "I told you before, you should send me back. What I did - I brought this on myself. This is my mess, nobody elses. It doesn't matter what happens to me. I deserve this. You don't. I don't want to drag you down with me."  
Wilson looked at him incredulously; he couldn't believe what his friend was saying.

"What the HELL are you TALKING ABOUT, no person deserves this House, it's barbaric!" He slammed his fist down on the table, causing the plates to jump. House cringed away from him. His hands were shaking and his lips trembling. He slid out of his chair and knelt on the floor, head bowed. 

"I am sorry, sir. I didn't mean to make you angry. This slave will do better, sir. I promise."

Wilson stared at him, frightened for his friend. House was more traumatised than he had ever realised. He'd gone from his old snarky self to a trembling slave in an instant. 

"I'll be good, sir. Please don't hurt me." House continued, in almost a whisper. 

Wilson knelt on the ground next to House and engulfed him in an embrace. They had never hugged... before. But now he needed the contact. He needed to bring House back from wherever he had gone.

"It's me, it's Wilson, House. I'm not going to hurt you. I will never hurt you. I'm sorry - I'm sorry I yelled." He hung on tight and gradually House relaxed against him. "You didn't do anything wrong. This is not your fault. Nothing is your fault."

"Thank you, sir," House whispered. "This slave is grateful. I'll do better..."

They stayed huddled on the floor for a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Present day**

Wilson spent a restless night, struggling to sleep. His dreams were filled of uniformed officers invading his home and beating his friend. Twice he got up and went to House's room and stared in at him through the open door, making sure he was still there. Eventually he dropped off, exhausted, only to wake a couple of hours later when he heard movement in the apartment.

He dragged himself out of bed and pulled on some old clothes. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes he went to the kitchen, only to find House already there. House had always been a later riser, and very much not a morning person, but here he was, and for the look of things he'd been up for some time. Just another thing that showed how much his friend had changed.

He looked around, blinking his eyes. The dirty dishes from the night before were nowhere in sight. All the bench surfaces had been cleaned until they sparkled. The floor had been swept and House was on his hands and knees, cleaning it with a rag and bucket of water. The tiles were shining. Wilson had never seen the kitchen this clean. 

"What the hell are you doing, House?"

House looked at him, startled, his eyes wide. 

"Cleaning."

"You don't have to do that. I told you - you're not my slave. You don't have to..." he waved a hand around the kitchen, "... clean."

House went back to his scrubbing. "I have to be your slave. The SAC are watching us. That little performance we put on yesterday didn't fool them. If I'm to stay here you have to treat me like a slave. I can't... I can't afford for them to think I'm not one. If they come in and the place isn't spotless they'll know. I'll have to go back. You said you didn't want that."

"I don't want this either."  
"Well, suck it up." He kept speaking without pausing in his work. "You need to get rid of some of the furniture in my room too. And put the chains in there ready. One set attached to the bed. And get a cage."

"I'm not putting you in a fucking cage! Surely they didn't do that to you!" House froze in place, trembling at Wilson's angry tone. Wilson reminded himself that he had to stay calm, for House's sake. He put one hand on House's shoulder.

"Sorry. I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at _them_." 

"Cages aren't all bad." House shrugged and wrung out his rag in the water, going back to work. "They can't do anything to you when you're in one."

* * *

Later that day, after House had done a thorough job of cleaning the apartment, Wilson decided to start working through the things they needed to do. He passed House one of his old rolltop sweaters and a jacket. 

House raised an eyebrow. "And you've given me this rolltop to wear because?"

"If you wear that you can conceal the collar. It will make it easier for you to go shopping," Wilson said. Truthfully he didn't want to be seen out in public with a slave at the end of a leash.  
House thrust the top back at him. "This," he pointed to the collar around his neck - the one Wilson could barely look at. "This is not _the_ collar, this is _my_ collar, and I can't just conceal it. I can't pretend it doesn't exist." 

"Do whatever you want. I thought you'd like to hide it." Wilson was tired of having all his ideas rejected. He was trying to do his best for House, and all his efforts were being thrown back into his face. 

"Of course I'd like to hide it!" House said angrily. "You think I like having a fucking metal collar around my neck? But what happens when someone sees the tattoo on my cheek and realises that I'm a slave, and I'm hiding my collar? That's attempted escape. Fifty lashes of the whip, minimum, and chains for the rest of my sentence. No thanks."

"Fine! You're right, let's just go then." Wilson turned towards the door and House picked up the leather leash that had been lying on the table by the door since their trip here. He thrust it at Wilson.

"You need to put this on me."

Wilson looked at the leash and at House who wasn't looking at him. He took a deep breath and clicked the leash onto House's collar. He had to get used to this. He would _never_ get used to this.

When they got to the car House got in the back seat and Wilson dropped the hood over his head. 

He drove in silence.

* * *

They had to park at a distance from the stores. House wasn't entitled to a disabled parking permit now. Wilson held the leash and House walked behind him. A man and his young child passed them and the child stared at House.

"Daddy, why is that man walking on a leash?" The child asked, in a loud voice and the father looked at them and then away.

"He is a slave; the other man is his owner." He bent and picked his child up; as if afraid that House would attack him.

"Is he a bad man?" 

"I told you, he isn't a man - he's a slave."

Wilson turned to say something to the man and House touched his arm lightly. "Don't," he said quietly. "Not here."

"He shouldn't talk about you like that, not to that child." Wilson protested but he was already turning away.

"So now you're going to be some sort of advocate for slave rights? This sort of shit has always gone on - you only care now because I'm a slave and it's in your face."

They had arrived at the store and House diverted Wilson's attention by looking at the name.

"Lacoste? You want to dress me like a mini-you?" 

"There's nothing wrong with the way I dress. It will do you good to look a bit fashionable for once."

"Lacoste is expense. Slaves are more 'dressed by Walmart'. Buying me fancy clothes is not going to help convince the SAC that you don't care about me. All I need is a pair of jeans, a few plain t-shirts, some socks and underwear and one pair of sneakers. I don't need sweater vests and ties. I'm just a fucking cleaning slave."

Wilson sighed, defeated. He hated hearing House describe himself like that. But he was right. He looked around to the next shop. It was no Walmart but it was less expensive. "Okay, I don't want to drive someone where else. This one will do." As they changed course to the other store a businessman walked past them, not paying attention and crashing into House's cane. 

House fell and Wilson felt the leash jerk as it tightened. He quickly let go and House fell heavily to the ground. The man was about to apologize and help him up when he saw the collar and leash. Instead of apologizing he kicked at the fallen man. 

"Fucking slave, getting in the way like that. Moron. Should be caged not walking the streets." He turned to Wilson. "Are you supposed to be in charge of him? Keep a better hold on the damned leash."

He stormed off and Wilson knelt down to check on House.

"Are you okay?" He put out his hand to help House up. House batted his hand out of the way with an angry wince and used the cane to lever himself back up to his feet. 

"Yeah, I'm fucking fine," he said under his breath, "Fucking free people." The last was almost whispered, and only said after a quick look around to check that no-one was within earshot.

A sales clerk came up to them and Wilson wondered how much of the scene outside he had observed. 

"How can I help you today, sir?" The clerk smiled at Wilson, totally ignoring the slave by his side. 

"I need to buy some clothes for my slave." Wilson played his role, pointing at House with a casual gesture.

"Okay, we'll just put the slave in one of the cages and pick out some clothes for him." 

"Oh, that's not necessary," Wilson protested. The clerk shook his head.

"Sorry, it's store policy that all slaves be caged while they're here."

Wilson had never taken much notice of the slave cages in shops before. Most shops had one or two; banks and restaurants usually had several. They were just there, part of the furniture of the shop. Sometimes there were slaves in them, and Wilson had glanced at them and never thought much of it.

Now, as he led House towards the ones in this store, he wondered how he could have never let himself question it. 

The cage was at least clean, if bare. It was a shallow upright one, placed discreetly in a corner. There was a small bench House could sit on if he wanted, and carpet on the floor. The clerk unlocked it and Wilson ordered House into it, his voice hard. 

Once House was locked inside the clerk whistled at him to get his attention. "Give me your leash and strip off. Leave your underwear and socks on." He looked at Wilson. "Unless you want them off as well, sir? 

"Um, no, that won't be necessary," Wilson said, blushing. The clerk gave him a curious look and then turned back to House.

"Hurry up, slave. Your Master doesn't have all day."

House unclipped the leash and handed it back through the bars and then awkwardly stripped off in the narrow space. He did it without any of the smart comments or arguing that Wilson would have expected. Wilson averted his eyes from the sight of his friend standing in a store in a cage, clad only in boxers and socks. His scar could be seen clearly. 

"That's a good boy. Now behave yourself while I help your master find some clothes for you." The clerk was no more than twenty, and hearing him talk in such a manner to House made Wilson's blood boil but he had no choice but to turn away and allow the clerk to help him pick out some clothes. 

He picked out some dark blue jeans and some black ones, some t-shirts that had the sort of designs that House used to favour. Then some button down shirts and some socks and underwear. It felt weird picking clothes out for House, like he was a dress up doll that Wilson owned. The clerk took them back in turn and had House try every piece of clothing on. 

"Stand up straight. Master wants to see you looking good in these nice clothes." He stepped back and surveyed House from top to bottom. "Yes, that looks a lot better, don't you agree, sir?"

"Yes, he looks good. I'll take all those. Leave him a pair of jeans and a t-shirt to wear now." Wilson looked apologetically at House, hating to have to talk about him this way but House was staring off into the distance.

Once the clothes were packed up and paid for the clerk unlocked the cage door and let House out. He handed the bags to House to carry. 

"Now, say thank you to your kind master for buying all these clothes for you," the clerk ordered. "Not many slaves get to wear such nice things."

House knelt at Wilson's feet.

"Thank you, sir. This slave is very grateful for your generosity."

Wilson couldn't choke out an answer; he just nodded and took hold of the leash. House rose to his feet and they left the shop.

"Pick the sneakers you like House" said Wilson when they walked inside a sports shop. Thankfully this one didn't have a cage in it. Instead it had a hitching post that a slave could be tied to. 

"It doesn't matter, Wilson. It´s not like they have to coo-ordinate with my collar." House kept his voice down so they wouldn't attract attention.

"Just...pick a pair," ordered Wilson. He was tired of this. He just wanted to get out of there, away from all these people who treated House like dirt. House quickly picked out a pair of Nike running shoes. They were black with red details. Running shoes were useless for him, he couldn't run because he was a cripple, he couldn't run because he was a slave. Even if he could run where would he run to? At least he could imagine with this shoes. Imagine what it would be like to be free, and to be able to run.  
"Thank you, Wilson," House said sincerely when they were back in the car. He meant it. The kindness Wilson had shown him in buying these clothes and shoes for him was more than anyone had shown him in three years.

"You are very welcome, House." Wilson smiled softly and then, after a nod of approval from his friend, he dropped the black hood over his head - sending him back into darkness.

* * *

**Three Years Earlier**

"Well Mr Greene, the treatment is working as expected. If you look at the scans..." Wilson said with a smile to his nervous patient. Then he was interrupted by the arrival of House, who entered the room without knocking and threw himself down on Wilson's office couch.

"Excuse me Mr Greene." Wilson smiled again and then turned towards House. "With a patient, House."

"Oh, don't mind me. I'm sure you can give him the 'you're dying' speech while I'm here." House stretched his legs out onto the coffee table.

"He's not dying," Wilson said through gritted teeth. "He's doing very well with chemotherapy."

House gawked at his patient. "Oh, well I guess you have to win one every now and then."

"I _am_ here," Mr Greene said, raising his hand slightly.

"Okay, well if he's fine you can buy me lunch." House said.

"House..." Wilson said, throwing his hands up.

"Doctor Wilson, it's okay. If your... friend, needs you more than I do I'll be going. I think you were almost finished anyway?"

"Mr Green, I..."

"The friend who recommended you to me said that you had a little problem," his patient eyed House, "that was part of the whole deal. As long as the scans keep looking good I'll keep coming."

Wilson glared at House again but he'd pulled his Gameboy out and was busy playing with it. His patient was already halfway to the door and Wilson gave up.

"I'll see you next week, Mr Greene."

Once the door was shut behind him Wilson stalked over and grabbed the Gameboy.

"Hey, I was playing that!"

"And I was with a patient!" Wilson put the Gameboy into his labcoat pocket. "You need to stop doing this, House."

"Lunch?"

Wilson sighed. "Lunch."

* * *

While they were eating lunch in the hospital's cafeteria Wilson wondered why House had pulled that stunt. He was always obnoxious and demanding but didn't often interrupt when Wilson had a patient in his office. Something must be bothering him, and being House he couldn't just approach him like a normal human being to talk about it. Wilson knew that Diagnostics current patient was a young boy. House was always drawn to his patients when they were children. He treated them as rudely as he did anyone else, but the children all seemed to get on well with him. Maybe the case was going badly. 

While they were eating a man walked into the room, a slave walking behind him. The man grabbed a hamburger and some fries and made his way to a table and sat down. The slave stood next to his chair until the man made a hand signal and then the slave knelt beside him, his head bowed and his hands behind his back. The slave was thin, too thin for his height. He was young, about nineteen Wilson guessed.

House was staring at the pair, his food forgotten on his plate.

"House?" There was no response and Wilson tried again. "House!"

House looked at him. "What?"

"Are you okay? Is that slave... upsetting you?"

"Why would seeing a slave 'upset' me?" House said, turning his gaze away and fiddling with his cane.

"You seemed a little..."

"I was thinking about my patient." House said and stood up. "I've got to go. You can have my fries."

He quickly walked off; taking a direction that led him away from the man and his slave.

"Okay, that wasn't weird at all," Wilson said to himself. He glanced back at the slave. The man was hand feeding him the scraps of his burger, making the slave beg for every bite. Wilson grimaced. Slaves were slaves, but there was no need to make a spectacle out of them.

He quickly finished his own meal and went back to work, putting the mystery of what the hell was up with House on the back burner.


	7. Chapter 7

**Present day  
**  
Wilson drove them both back to his apartment, his mind churning over with the events of the last few days, and plans for the future. He was beginning to realise just what being House's 'owner' entailed. It was difficult enough while he was off work, but once he went back - in a few days time - what the hell was he going to do with House? He wasn't going to leave him chained up on a bed all day that's for sure. Every glimpse in the rear view mirror at the hooded, silent, figure set his stomach churning. Despite the occasional glimpses of the 'old House' it was apparent that his friend had been deeply hurt over the last two years of his slavery. Wilson didn't know how he could begin to help him heal while House still had to endure another five years of being treated like something less than human. The scene in the clothing shop was burned into his memory - how many similar scenes, and much worse, were in House's nightmares?

He was so wrapped up in his frustration and anger that he didn't notice the police car behind him until the sirens were blaring at him. He glanced down and realised he'd been speeding. Cursing himself, he pulled over. This was the last thing either of them needed.

"Sorry, House. Cops. I was speeding." It felt strange talking to a hooded figure in the back of the car and he wasn't surprised when he didn't receive an answer.

The police officer approached at an easy pace, his ticket book already coming out. Then he glanced in the rear of the car and stiffened. He stopped and with one hand on the butt of his gun he called out to Wilson.

"Get out of the car, driver. Hands where I can see them."

Puzzled, Wilson did so and the officer eyed him suspiciously.

"That your slave?"

"Yes."

"Show me his papers."

"I haven't got them with me." Wilson had filed them away carefully in his home office.

"How long have you had him? You need to carry his papers at all times."

"I just bought him a couple of days ago. Sorry officer, he's my first slave - I didn't know I was supposed to carry his papers. Is there a problem?"

"He's not secured properly. Should be in a harness. He can just reach around and get himself out of that seatbelt. Don't want him throwing himself out of the car. Slaves are fucking stupid; you never know what they're going to do. I'll need to check him out. Get him out here. Leave his hood on."

Wilson wanted to argue - the last thing he wanted to do was expose House to any more public scrutiny - but the officer was still standing with his hand on the butt of his gun. So he opened the back door of the car. 

Leaning over House he released the seat belt. 

"House, the officer wants to see you. I'm sorry. You need to get out. Just stay calm okay? I'm sure we can sort this out. I won't let anything happen to you." They both knew that the last was an empty promise. 

House's reply was muffled through the hood but audible. "Easy for you to say." 

“I’m sorry,” Wilson repeated.

“Sorry doesn’t help me.”

With House unable to see Wilson had to help him out of the car, making sure he ducked his head so he didn't hit it on the frame. 

"Move away from the slave, sir. Slave, you stand very still." The officer barked at them and Wilson reluctantly backed off a few steps. 

Once he was clear the officer stepped up, kicking at House's leg.

"Kneel down, slave. Hands behind your head."

House dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his head, the hood still in place. Wilson could see he was trembling but otherwise he held still. The officer yanked on his collar, feeling for the tag. He scanned it with his hand-held device and then told House to lie face down on the ground, arms and legs spread-eagled. House instantly complied, his face lying against the rough surface of the pavement.

The officer patted House down, pulling his shirt up and feeling inside his waistband, checking the front and rear of his pants and running his hands through House's hair. Then leaving him there like that he went back to his car and ran the tag against the slave ownership records.

He returned to Wilson.

"The slave checks out. There's a flag on his file from the SAC. Apparently you've already got a warning for improper restraint. I'll need to take him back to the station until you get your shit together. You can pick him up tomorrow after you've bought the harness and the other stuff. Get on your feet, slave!" he called out to House and House staggered to his feet, looking blindly around.

"Is that necessary? I can take him and get the harness immediately," Wilson protested. 

"Yes, sir. It is. Regulations." The officer said, stepping forward to grab House's arm. With a tight grip he led him to the patrol van and opened the back door. There was a cage in one corner and to Wilson's dismay he shoved House into it. He had to curl up tightly to fit. The officer slammed the door shut and locked it. He rapped on the cage with his knuckles. 

"You stay nice and quiet, slave. Otherwise you can spend the night in there."

He slammed the door closed and faced Wilson.

"There, that's how you restrain a slave. You can't pussyfoot around with them. You have to speak a language they understand." He tore the ticket off his book. "Here's your speeding ticket. You can pick your property up tomorrow from the station once we inspect your harness."

"You can't just take him!" Wilson protested again, cringing at the image of House crammed into a tiny cage. He must be terrified. "He's mine. I own him." The words were ashen in his mouth, but it was better to assert his possession of House than to let him be taken away. 

"He's still yours. I'm just borrowing him for the night," the officer grinned unpleasantly. "Goodbye, Doctor Wilson. Have a nice day."

* * *

Officer Carter arrived back at the precinct and opened the cage. The slave was curled into the small space and he struck out at the nearest limb with his baton. 

"Out you get."

The slave was awkward, as he couldn't see with the hood on and also appeared to be lame. Carter ended up almost dragging him out and dumping him on the ground at the back of the van. 

"Get up," he ordered, giving the slave another strike with the baton to get him moving. The slave staggered to his feet - why the hell would someone buy a slave this useless? - and stood waiting, his head bowed. 

He was about to take the slave to the kennels, where they kept any slaves they had taken into custody, when he was stopped by an older officer. 

"What have you got there?"

"Picked him up on the road. SAC have a flag on him - think his new owner is being soft on him. The owner didn't have a harness for him so I brought the slave in. That should put a rocket up his owner."

"Take his hood off, I want to see him."

Carter grabbed the hood and took it off the slave's head. The slave blinked in the sudden sunlight and then stared at Carter's colleague. His eyes went wide with fear.

Michael Tritter grinned. This was going to be fun.

"Well, well, Greg House. Should have known that a piece of dirt like you would end up as a slave. And I bet your new 'owner' is Wilson isn't it? Still picking up the pieces after your sorry ass." He stepped closer to House and lifted his chin with his baton. "Well, _slave_ , this time you've done something that Wilson and that bitch Cuddy can't fix for you." 

He stepped back and eyed House.

"Get down, slave! On all fours, just like the dog you are." He snapped - knowing that House's ingrained slave reflexes would kick in and he would obey.

House dropped to all fours. He was trembling in a way that made Tritter grin in anticipation. 

"I'll take him to the kennels," he said, taking the leash from Carter and clipping it on House's collar. He caressed the slave's stubbly head. "What a good boy you are. We're going to have a great time aren't we? Just you and me."

"You can't touch me, I'm tagged," House said, his voice breaking. Tritter slapped his face hard, rocking his head back.

"Shut up, slave. If I want you to talk to me I'll tell you. Wilson may have a tag on you but the SAC also have an eye on you. All I need to do is tell them what a 'special' relationship you boys have and they'll take you off him and put you back to auction. So if you know what's good for you you'll keep that fucking big mouth of yours shut, until I tell you to open it nice and wide for me."

He tugged on the lead. "Come on, slave. We're going to the kennels." House had no choice but to crawl after him on hands and knees.

The pain in his leg was excruciating by the time they reached the kennels. It had been hours since his last Vicodin, and he knew there was no hope of one until tomorrow morning at the earliest. His leg was cramped from being in the cage, and the crawling was adding its own agony. 

On the way to the outside kennels House had to crawl past some holding cells for free people. Drunks, or junkies, spending their night in jail. As he crawled past they hurled insults at him, jeering at the slave who was so much less than they were. They had a proper cell to spend the night; he was going to be locked in a dirty kennel. The same sort of kennel as a police dog might occupy - although theirs would probably be cleaner. 

The kennel was completely devoid of furniture, or anything else. There was no bunk, or toilet in the corner. No blankets, nothing. One small round container on the floor held some dirty water as a minimum concession to human needs. 

Tritter led him to the middle of the concrete floor.

"Kneel," he commanded and House did so. He spread his knees widely, clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head in the correct fashion.

Tritter walked behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

"You're shaking. Are you scared?"

House didn't answer. There was nothing he could say. Tritter trailed a hand around the back of his neck, and then pressed lightly on the nerves there. 

"I asked you a question. Are you scared?"

"Yes," House whispered. It was the truth anyway. When Tritter had been investigating him - back in that other life, over three years ago - he had taunted House with the possibility that he'd be imprisoned and then enslaved. He had promised him that if that happened Tritter would take his revenge for the stunt with the thermometer. House had escaped then, but now he was trapped. Tritter could do whatever he liked to him. 

"Good. You should be." He pressed a bit harder on the nerves and then let go. He patted at House's shoulder instead. 

"Those are nice clothes for a slave. New too. Did Wilson buy them for you?"

"Yes." There was no point denying Wilson was his owner. It was a matter of record now. 

"Take them off. All of them."

House hesitated. The clothes provided little protection but at least they let him retain a shred of dignity. He didn't want to lose them.

Tritter came around to the front and knelt in front of him, his face close. 

"You don't want me to do it for you do you? I'd have to use a knife to cut those fine clothes off, and you might lose something of importance." Tritter placed a hand on House's groin, squeezing his balls through the fabric. House tried to squirm away but Tritter held him in place. "Let's get one thing straight here. You're a slave. That means you do what I say, when I say it." He released his hold. "Now, take those clothes off."

House reluctantly took off his new clothes, item by item. He handed them to Tritter who dumped them outside the kennel on the muddy ground. Then House knelt back into position. 

Tritter took a step back and scrutinised him.

"You've lost weight."

"A slave diet will do that for you," House shot back without thinking. "You should try it."

Tritter put one booted foot out and pressed down hard on House's right thigh. The kneeling position had exposed the scar and Tritter's foot found the heart of it. House gasped as the pain shot up his spine. 

"Maybe you," Tritter leaned in harder and the pain doubled, "should keep your mouth shut."

Keeping his foot in place he unclipped the leash from House's collar. Only then did he move his foot. House gasped and slumped down.

"You've lost weight," Tritter repeated, almost conversationally. This time House knew the correct response.

"Yes, sir."

Tritter patted him on the head. "Good boy. See, you can be a good little slave can't you? All you need is a little discipline."

He left House kneeling there and left the kennel, locking the heavy steel door behind him. He looked back in through the bars.

"Don't worry - I won't be gone long. I just have some preparations to make. Make yourself comfortable. We'll talk more later." He said, his cold expression never changing. He toed the clothes lying on the ground. "Nice clothes. Too nice for scum like you."

As House watched from his kneeling position Tritter unzipped his fly and pissed all over the clothes and shoes Wilson had bought for him. Then he zipped himself back up and walked off without another glance. 

House went to the back of the cage, as far away from the door as he could get. He wrapped his arms around his body and huddled there, waiting for the waves of pain still surging through his leg to subside. He wouldn't give in to this - he was a man, not a dog, not a piece of furniture. Tritter could abuse him, but he could never break him. He only had to survive this night and Wilson would come and get him. He just had to hold on.

* * *

**Three Years Earlier**

He was alone in his office. His young patient, Timothy, was stable for the moment and the fellows had all gone home to grab some sleep. It was dark outside, well into the evening, and the hospital was quiet. He should have left for the night as well, but somehow he was still sitting here, alone.

He startled as he heard the soft sound of a throat being cleared and looked up to see a slave standing hesitantly in his doorway.

"I told you before not to sneak up on me," he said and the slave seemed to shrink in on himself.

"This slave is sorry, sir..." he bowed his head.

House sighed. "I also told you not to bother with that crap around me. Just come in and do whatever it is you need to do so you won't be tossed into a cage, or whipped, or whatever it is they do to you."

The slave's eyes went wide and House wondered if the cage wasn't closer to this slave's reality than he'd realised.

He'd first noticed the slave a few months ago when he'd been at the hospital late. He'd startled him by coming back to his office while the slave was cleaning it. The slave had looked half starved, beaten, and over-worked. His clothes hung off him. House had just stolen some food from the fridge in the Oncology department and he saw the way the slave's eyes fixated on it. He'd made a show of throwing half a sandwich in the trash and left the office. When he came back the trash had been cleared out and the sandwich was gone. Maybe the slave had eaten it, maybe he hadn't, but since then House had generally left some treat or other in the trash for the slave who cleaned his office to find.

The slave hesitantly entered his office and made for the trash can. There was no food in there; House had been too preoccupied with the case to think of food for himself, let alone a slave. The slave didn't even look inside; instead he just grabbed it and made for the door. House could see that there was a cart parked outside, with a larger bin. The slave emptied the trash can into it and then came back with it.

"What's your name?" House asked abruptly.

The slave froze in the act of putting the can down and House sighed.

"I'm not going to bite you, just tell me your name. You do have one don't you?"

"Dave, sir. My name is Dave."

"Were you born a slave?"

Dave bit his lip, looked around and then finally shook his head.

"No, sir. I used to be free. A long time ago."

"What happened?"

Dave looked at the ground, his body starting to tremble. He said nothing. House was on the verge of telling him to forget it and go back to work when Dave answered him.

"I made a mistake, sir. And this happened to me."

House raised an eyebrow. "Must have been a helluva mistake."

"It was, sir. The biggest mistake of my life, sir. I regret it every day."

House didn't know what to say to that. His father had a saying that he liked to berate his only son with - 'mistakes live forever'. Looking at Dave, and at the collar around his neck, House knew that was true. He sat silently while Dave finished his work and then the slave left his office with only a quick bob of his head as acknowledgement. 

He should go home. Staying here wasn't helping the kid, and it wouldn't change the past. 

He moved to his Eames chair and stretched out. He should go home. But he needed to be here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback scene in this chapter written by Nickythehippi.
> 
> Warning for non-con and various other nasty stuff in this chapter.

**Present day**

Tritter returned hours later, carrying two paper bags and a folding chair. He entered the kennel cage and put the chair down in the middle of the floor. He sat down and opened one bag, the other was left on the floor.

House ignored him; he was wrapped up in his pain. His hand worked away at the dead muscle in his leg. He was long overdue for his meds and his body was exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal. Tritter unwrapped a hamburger and some fries and proceeded to slowly eat both. House wanted to puke from the pain, but the sight of the burger made him salivate. Tritter held the burger out towards him, but he knew better than to take it. He closed his eyes. 

A slap rocked his face. "Open your eyes, slave." Tritter said in a low, dangerous, voice and House's eyes opened again. A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth but he made no move to wipe it away. 

"Keep them open, or I'll find something to make sure you do." He sat back and ate some more of his burger. "You hungry, slave?" he asked after taking another large bite, bits of food still in his mouth.

"No."

"Sorry, I didn't hear you. You are not what?"

"I am not hungry... sir," House said, each word bitten out, contempt in his voice.

"Well, that's a shame. Because regulations say you gotta eat. Here, have some food." Tritter picked up the second bag and emptied the contents on the dirty floor. It was slave chow. He kicked at it to spread it around.

"Sorry, I'm not hungry," House said again. It was false bravado. He was a slave; defiance could only ever be temporary.

"E.A.T," Tritter said, emphasizing each letter. "Crawl over here and eat the delicious slave chow. Every bit of it."

House stared at him, every fibre of his body protesting but then he went to his hands and knees and crawled over to the nearest clump of slave chow. He went to pick it up and had his hand kicked away. "No hands. Eat it like the good little dog you are." 

House bent his head down and began to pick it up in his mouth, trying to avoid the worst of the mud and dirt on the ground. Tritter started caressing his head, patting it as he would a dogs. "That's the way, good boy, good boy. Who could have imagined that the rabid animal I met at the clinic would become such a docile little pet? No smart remarks now, _Doctor House_?"

His hand moved lower, coming to rest on House's balls which he held loosely. House kept eating, trying to avoid showing a reaction to the touch. He knew worse was to come.

"You have no idea how much I am going to enjoy fucking your ass. I don't have a thermometer to put up there, but I think this will work just fine." He thrust his crotch into House's face. 

House shuddered involuntarily and Tritter laughed. He squeezed House's balls tightly before releasing them and giving him another pat on the head. 

"I need to piss. You keep on eating your food. I wouldn't want you to waste any of it." Tritter walked towards the round container in the corner with House's drinking water in it. House could see him out of the corner of his eye, and he could hear the splash as Tritter's urine hit the surface of the water. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Then he went back to eating each last chunk of slave chow. Tritter kept him at it until it was all gone; mashing the last few pieces under his boot before letting House eat them. The last one he held in his hand and fed to House.

"Good boy. Now, after all that food you must be thirsty. Go and have a nice long drink of your water."

"Please… Please, I can't." House hated to beg but he couldn't, he just couldn't.

"Be a good boy, you're doing really well. I think you learned a lot with the SAC - pity it couldn't have happened earlier. Pup like you needed to learn some good manners a long time ago. A shame your father didn't teach you - you might not have ended up here."

"Please, sir... I can't..." His stomach was churning from the pain and the slave chow he'd just eaten. He couldn't drink that filthy water.

"Oh, I think you can," Tritter said in a steel cold voice. He grabbed House's collar and dragged him across the floor of the cage to the water container. "Drink that or I'll hold you down and pour it down your throat." He pushed House's head down until his nose touched the water. House could smell the putrid water. Tritter's grip on him tightened and he reluctantly began to lap the water. He immediately started gagging at the taste of the hot piss mixed with the dirty water.

"No puking or you'll be lapping that up as well." Thankfully he let go of House's head and allowed him to pull up from the water before he could become sick. "Okay, dinner time's over. I have to get back to work. I'll come back later. Don't mess the floor or I'll make you clean it with your tongue."

House collapsed on the ground as Tritter left the cage and locked it behind himself. Once Tritter was out of sight he started sobbing, from the pain and the fear, and the disgust at himself. Nothing remained of the man who had defied Tritter three years ago. He was broken now, when Tritter hadn't been able to break him then.

* * *

The slave lay curled in a ball in one corner of the kennel. He felt wretchedly sick, he was shaking and sweating and his body was trembling. The kennel was dark, and putrid, and the floor was cold concrete.

When the man came back the slave was almost glad to see him, at least he hadn't been left in this hole to die. The man told him to get on all fours and he did, straining to keep perfect form despite his leg trembling and his body shaking. He felt cold rough fingers pressing into his asshole, and something greasy and slippery being pushed into him. The man laughed as he squirmed.

"I could be fucking you dry but you might bleed and but we don't want any inconvenient questions do we?" The man said. "Now spread those knees a bit wider, boy." 

He moved his knees apart and felt a heavy weight on his back as he was mounted. Something thick and heavy penetrated him and he whimpered in pain. His buttocks were slapped, a stinging sound that echoed around the kennel, then again, and again. The man laughed and began thrusting, sending the slave forward with every movement, his body impaled by the man's cock.

"How does that feel, _Doctor_ House? How many men have had you since they put that collar on your neck? How many times have you sucked cock? Maybe I should have got you to do that for me. I bet your mouth is used to having a dick stuffed down it by now. Maybe another time, eh slut?"

A rough hand came around and grasped the slave's cock, squeezing it painfully.

"What about that nancy boy, Wilson? Is he fucking you every night? I could tell that's what he wanted to do - that and that bitch who ran the hospital. Maybe they're going to share you between them now." The man thrust again and the slave felt hot fluid pumping into him. The man withdrew then, pulling his cock out roughly causing the slave to scream in pain and collapse onto the ground. He started crying again and received another slap.

"Shut your mouth, slave. We don't want anyone to come find you like this do we? Get back up on your hands and knees, boy. I've got a present for you."

The slave did, holding still as he felt something hard and unyielding shoved into his tender passage. The man put a belt around his waist and locked it. The object inside him was held fast.

"There, now you'll know what it's like to have something shoved up your ass and left there. Of course it's a bit bigger than a thermometer but seeing as you're nothing but a slutty fuck toy now I think you can take it." The man gave a thrust to the dildo inside him and the slave cried out. 

"Now, I want to make sure you have a night you'll remember for a long time." The man took a chain and ran it between the harness around his waist, the slave's collar and the iron bars at the front of the kennel. He hastened it high up and with no slack, so the slave couldn't lie on the ground. He was held on his hands and knees. 

The man looked down at him with cold eyes, a sadistic smile on his face. 

"Oh, one last thing, _Doctor House_ , a little favour for me. I've enjoyed playing with you so much that I would like it to continue. You will come to my house at night, once a week to start with, maybe more later. You will dress as a person, even though you are no longer one, use a scarf or rolltop to conceal your lovely collar. I will pick you up near Wilson's apartment. Next Thursday, eight o'clock for our first appointment I think. You will not tell Wilson anything about this. Do you understand?"

The slave looked up at him, his mind confused. The man snarled and hit him again across the face.

"Do.you.understand?" The man asked again and this time the slave answered yes, because he was a slave and that was the only answer he could give.

The man looked pleased, "Good boy, well done. I'm looking forward to it. Now, I'm going home to bed. I've stayed far too long tonight just to enjoy you." He wrinkled his nose. "This place really is putrid. Maybe a nice bath will do you good." He went over to the dirty water and poured it over the slave's head. Then he went to the faucet outside and refilled it, leaving it just out of the slave's reach.

"Good night, _doctor_ , don't go anywhere will you?" He laughed and dropped a heavy black hood over the slave's head, leaving him in darkness. "Sleep tight. And don't forget, you say a word about this and you're gone. Back to the SAC. No more Wilson."

The man left and the slave heard the steel door lock behind him. His head was held high by the chain, and the dildo in his ass stabbed him with every movement. He managed to stagger to his feet to relieve the pressure on his neck but he could only cling miserably to the bars for the rest of the night waiting for daylight to come and his owner to fetch him - if he ever decided to.

 

 **Three Years Earlier  
**  
The scans on their young patient, Timothy, showed what House had known they would. He had at least two fractures that hadn't been treated in a hospital.

"We need to report this to child services," Cameron said, her eyes on the scans. "That's not from a fall - he's been abused." She gathered up the child's chart and the scans and started for the door.

"Is that going to help diagnose him?"

"What diagnosis? The kid's being abused." Cameron said impatiently.

"Oh, and that's causing all his other symptoms? Cool. Make sure you write a paper - but don't let anyone steal it this time." The last was added in a stage whisper with a pointed look at Foreman who rolled his eyes.

"House is right. We have evidence of past abuse - we have no evidence that his current condition has anything to do with abuse."

"We have to report this." Cameron insisted.

"We will. Once we've diagnosed him." House stood up and went to the whiteboard.

Cameron hesitated at the door to the conference room and then came and sat back down.

"Unclench," House said. "Helps the brain work better if it's getting some blood - and gets this kid diagnosed quicker and away from Daddy dearest."

"We don't know it's the father who abused him," Foreman pointed out. "Could be his mother, or some friend of the family."

"It's the father," House said flatly. He could still remember the fear in young Timothy's eyes when he looked at his father. He knew that fear.

After the fellows had gone off to run more tests House tapped his cane on the floor as he spun in his office chair slowly. This case was bringing back old memories. Memories he'd done his best to bury all his adult life. He closed his eyes trying to calm his breathing, trying to erase the flow of images that were racing through his mind.

 

_It was the darkest night he'd ever seen. He wasn't sure if he should be scared or relieved as he sat in the woods alone. He was only wearing a thin long shirt, and a worn pair of jeans. A chain around his ankle was attached to the trunk of the tree he was sitting against._

_He shivered as a cold breeze of late Fall air hit him and howled through the tall trees. He cradled his bad arm close to his body. There were sounds all around him of leaves moving with the wind and creatures of the night skittering around unseen but he was used to that and in an odd way it was calming._

_He licked his lips, tasting dried blood and dirt, and began to think about sleep. He would usually dig a hole with his hands into the earth to sleep in but the pain in his arm made that impossible. Maybe he could make a bed out of the fallen leaves. Then he heard the birds flying out of the trees half a mile to the north and his heart stopped as he listened for the sounds he didn't want to hear._

_He began to tremble as he heard the crunch of boots on leaves. Tears came to his eyes as the footsteps came closer but there was nothing he could do. He couldn't run or hide and yet he couldn't take any more pain, not tonight. He just wanted to be left alone. It wasn't long before he saw the flashlights and realized there were two men. He wiped his eyes quickly knowing that being found crying would only make things worse and scrambled to his feet._

_“How did it happen?”_

_“The idiot fell out of one of the tall oak trees that I'd told him not to climb. The boy doesn't have any sense, but he's going to learn his lesson one way or the other.” John's harsh voice responded._

_The other man glanced at his father with concern, “Maybe he should be in the house tonight, he looks like he's had enough."_  
 _  
“He'll never learn anything if I reward him for his mistakes. No, he'll stay out here tonight with the animals he acts like.” His father shone the flashlight directly into his face so that he was half blinded._

_The other man walked up to Greg._

_"Let me see your arm." When Greg hesitantly held it out the man probed it gently. "So, you fell out of a tree?"_  
 _  
“Yes, sir,” he answered in a hoarse whisper._

_The man shone the light over Greg's body, revealing the usual mottled bruises that decorated his arms and legs. “Looks like you hit a few branches on the way down.”_

_His father smiled at Greg. “I guess he must have done. You've always been clumsy haven't you, Greg?”_

_"Yes, sir," he said again. The man looked from him to his father and then shrugged._

_"Okay, then. His arm is fractured, John. You really should get him to a hospital. It's going to hurt like hell if I set it here."_

_Greg trembled from the pain and fear. He knew he wasn't going to a hospital._

_"No, fix it here. Greg is tough, aren't you boy?"_

_"Y..yes, sir."_

_It hurt worse than he thought it would. As his arm was pulled he couldn't help but let out a small cry of pain, and then a whimper when the bone was pushed back into place._

_The man let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, Greg. It's over, I set it. Now I'll just need to make a splint."_

_“I've got it,” John said grabbing up a two inch thick branch that was fairly straight and breaking it with his bare hands._

_The loud crack startled him, it sounded just like his arm had when his father had broken it. The man gave him another look and then took the pieces and some gauze out of his bag and made a splint._

_"Okay, that will do. Don't sleep on it, okay Greg?" The man stood back, putting stuff away. He didn't seem to want to look Greg in the eye.  
_  
 _"I'll meet you back at the truck, I need to talk to Greg a bit," John said. Again the man hesitated but then walked off. When he was out of earshot John grabbed Greg's good arm._

_"I've taught you better than that. Moaning in pain like you're some goddamned whore slave. Next time I catch you talking to one of those filthy creatures I won't bother with teaching you a lesson. I'll take you up to the auction myself. Then you'll find out what pain is all about." He let go of his arm and then punched him in the stomach. Greg collapsed on the ground and felt a boot connect with his hip._

_"Remember boy, not a word to anyone." He walked away without looking back. Greg curled up on the leaves and cried himself to sleep._


	9. Chapter 9

**Present day**

Officer Jones had been given the job of checking on any slaves that were in the kennels each morning. He was young, and was paid to keep his mouth shut about anything he found there. Some of the officers liked to have a little fun with any slaves that were brought in. There was no harm in it but no need to publicise it either. Jones was discreet.

Although he was accustomed to finding slaves a little bit worse for wear he was still shocked at the state of the slave in the only occupied kennel. The slave was almost hanging from the bars with a chain wrapped around his collar. He appeared to be only semi-conscious, his body making small twitching movements. He was butt naked which wasn't unusual but the harness and dildo fastened around his waist were. This one must have really pissed someone off. 

Jones donned some rubber gloves and went into the kennel. He made short work of unfastening the slave, and removed the dildo with a quick yank which brought a soft moan of pain to the slave’s lips and an effort to scuttle away. Jones held him in place by his collar while he looked him over. The slave was old - well past his prime. His leg was disfigured by an ugly scar. Hardly a prize catch. He shook his head. Well, someone had enjoyed him last night anyway. He'd seen that bastard Tritter hanging around down here yesterday - he was well known for fucking anyone who couldn't move away fast enough. 

He let him go of the collar and the slave collapsed by his feet, his body shaking. He made a pathetic effort to try and pull himself into the proper kneeling position but couldn't manage it. His lips were dry and cracked and his mouth parted as he tried to say something.

Jones looked around for the water bowl and saw that it had been placed out of the slave´s reach so he picked it up and shoved it under his nose. 

"Drink that."

The slave obediently lapped at it weakly with his tongue. Jones waited patiently until he'd nearly drunk the entire bowl. 

"Thank you, sir," the slave managed to say in a weak voice. 

Jones grunted and snapped a leash on his collar. The slave struggled to his hands and knees which was enough for Jones. He pulled on the leash and unlocked the cage, taking the slave out to the yard. He went the back way out of sight of everyone. 

Once in the yard he hitched the slave up to a post with his leash and rinsed him off with the hose the police slaves used to wash the cars. When he was satisfied that he was at least clean on the surface he left him shivering there and went to retrieve the pile of clothes he'd spotted outside the kennel. They were filthy and smelly but the slave would be used to wearing clothes like that. He picked up an old rag off the garage floor and passed it to the slave.   
"Dry yourself with that and then put your clothes back on."

The slave took a while to obey but finally he was more or less dry and dressed in his old clothes. He still looked pale and was shaking but that could be explained by a night in a kennel. There were a couple of bruises on his face but again, that wasn't unusual for a slave taken into custody. His owner could hardly complain if his slave was a little worse for wear. Jones didn't know what other damage the slave had taken but at least it didn't show.

He took the slave back to his kennel. The boy didn't want to go back in but a couple of quick strikes with a crop to his thighs got him moving. Jones left him there while he went to get feed for him. When he returned the slave was still kneeling in the same position. He put a bowl of slave chow on the ground.

"Eat that." He watched in disgust as the slave ate messily, his face down in the bowl. He didn't even attempt to use his hands. Slaves really were little better than animals. The slave ate every piece and then knelt up, his body still quivering. 

Jones nodded. His job was almost done, then he could get out of this filthy place.

"What happened here last night?" he asked, to check.

The slave stared at him wide eyed for a moment and then his face went blank.

"Nothing this slave didn't deserve, sir." He gave the standard answer. Slaves only became damaged when they deserved it. 

"Good. Nothing happened. Remember that. You don't want to have to come back here do you?"

The slave trembled all over. "No, sir. Nothing happened. This slave is sorry, sir. This slave will do better, sir."

Satisfied that all was well Jones locked the cage again and went and reported that the slave was ready for pick up whenever his owner decided to turn up. Hopefully he wouldn't have to spend another night here, taking care of him had taken up a large part of Jones' morning, he didn't have that sort of time to spare again.

* * *

Wilson was at the front desk of the station as soon as he could get there the next day. It hadn't been easy getting all the things that he'd been required to get but he didn't want to leave House here longer than necessary. He didn't like the way the police officer had treated him yesterday.

"Hello, I am Doctor James Wilson, I am here to pick up my slave - Greg," he said to the officer who was in the front desk of the station. It still felt strange to refer to House in that manner. As if he was a piece of lost property. 

"Hey, Jones! This man is looking for his slave." The man at the front desk called out to a younger officer who was working in the other room. "Go and fetch him for us. He's the lame one they brought in yesterday."

While Jones was gone Wilson presented his receipts for his purchase of the harness and other equipment and the desk officer gave it a cursory glance over.

"Yeah - that looks good. SAC will be out again to inspect anyway. They have a flag on you two. Guess you must have annoyed them."

When Jones reappeared he had House at the end of a leash. House was limping severely without his cane and to Wilson's professional eyes he looked terrible. Exhausted, in pain, and with a dead look in his eyes. There were a couple of dark bruises on his face and Wilson wondered how many were hidden on his body.

Jones unclipped the leash and gave House a pat on the ass. "Go to your owner and behave yourself or we'll take you back to the kennel."

House bowed his head and answered respectfully. "Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir." He shuffled towards Wilson, and then slipped to his knees by Wilson's side, his head down. Wilson was aware of an unpleasant smell coming from him. The fine clothes he'd purchased yesterday were stained and torn. He looked at the desk officer who stared back at him with a bored expression. Protesting the treatment of a slave would be suspicious so Wilson swallowed what he was going to say and looked down at House. 

"Get to your feet and let's go. I've wasted enough time on you today." He said harshly, aware of their audience and was surprised when House flinched. Surely he knew it was an act?

Without his cane House had difficulty walking even that small distance. He lurched heavily, his gait even worse than usual. He was shaking and Wilson realised that he hadn't had any Vicodin for almost a day. On top of everything else he was going into withdrawal and probably in agony.

House stopped by the back door of the car. Wilson waited for him to open it but it seemed he wasn't going to. Wilson reached around him and operated the handle, opening the door. House stared in at the harness that had been installed. It was chain and leather and would hold him completely still when he was in the car. There was an attachment where the hood was clipped on. With the harness fastened and the hood draped over his head he would be completely helpless.

"Okay," he said quietly, almost as if to himself. 

Wilson didn't like how quiet House was. He was almost like a zombie - like the soul of his friend had gone and only this shell remained. What the hell had happened during that night at the police station?

When House made no move to enter the car Wilson gently asked him if he knew how to put the harness on, or if needed help.

House turned his head and stared at him. His eyes were dead and empty; there wasn't a trace of expression on his face. Then suddenly a change came over him, a spark of something came back. Wilson was puzzled for a moment and then realised what the emotion was - fierce anger. House was furious. 

"I may be a piece of crap slave but I know how to put a fucking harness on." He clambered into the car awkwardly and pulled the straps of the harness around him. The fit was tight already but he pulled the straps savagely until not an inch of movement was left to him. "You'll need to lock my hands down."

Wilson swallowed hard and leaned in to place the cuff straps around House's hands and clip them into the rest of the harness. Now he couldn't even move his hands. Then he took out a key and locked the central mechanism. House wouldn't be able to get out of the harness, and therefore out of the car, until Wilson allowed it. One less freedom. 

Wilson realised that House's anger wasn't directed at him, or the harness, but at the whole shitty situation. At whatever had happened while he'd been in the keeping of the police. 

Anger was at least better than the zombie like detachment he'd been previously presenting. 

He tried to connect again. "You look like crap, what happened to your face?" he asked. He fished in the pocket of his pants and took out House's Vicodin. Then he realised that with his hands locked down House couldn't take them. 

House's eyes were riveted on Wilson holding the pills. He licked dry lips. "Please... Can I have them..." Then he opened his mouth wide, his eyes pleading with Wilson. 

Wilson hadn't meant to make him beg. He flushed and put a pill on House's tongue. House quickly closed his mouth and crunched the bitter pill into pieces. Wilson flinched, House must really be hurting. House was still looking at the pills and Wilson took pity on him and held out another. That one went as quickly as the first. 

Wilson put the bottle away. "House, I'm serious - what happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing happened."

"Something must have. You look..."

"Nothing happened, Wilson. Leave it at that. Please. Put my hood on." House turned his head away and Wilson reluctantly dropped the hood over his head. 

He drove home in silence.

* * *

After Wilson had parked up he came around to the back door to let House out. The hood was still over his head as he couldn't remove it with the harness holding down his hands. Wilson quickly took it off and then while House sat there in silence he fumbled with getting the key into the central lock on the harness. 

When House could finally get out of the car he staggered to his feet and stood in front of the apartment, looking up at it. All the windows were now barred with heavy steel bars. 

"They came and fitted them yesterday" Wilson said, almost apologetically. House just nodded and waited for Wilson to walk to the house. When he did so, House followed with the proper distance between them.

Once they were inside Wilson quickly closed the curtains and locked the door and House relaxed slightly. For the moment he had a few minutes to breathe and just be House for a while. Or as much as he could be. 

"I made the changes that you suggested. I think we are ready if the SAC come again." Wilson said hopefully. House followed him to his own bedroom and when he entered he could see that the king sized bed had gone, replaced with a much smaller single bed. He was relieved that it still looked comfortable, far more so than any bed he'd slept in for the last three years. A mile away from his accommodations last night. 

A set of chains was attached to each corner of the bed, each chain ending in a padded cuff. House swallowed hard, he'd been chained to the bed quite a few times in his training - and his first postings - for discipline. Once he'd been left for two days, tightly chained, gagged and blindfolded. He'd lain in his own waste, with only his pain for company. After two days of that he'd been ready to serve his masters in all the cruel and humiliating ways they'd demanded. 

A steel cage sat ominously in a corner of the room, in the space that a dresser and a mirror had previously occupied. The stylish curtains at the window had gone, now only the steel bars could be seen. The room was empty of any other furniture other than a small closet with a padlock on it. House would have to ask Wilson to open it to get any clothes he was allowed out. 

The room now looked less like a guest bedroom and more like a slave's quarters - even if it was still large and with its own bathroom. 

"I'm sorry I had to change it. I wanted you to be comfortable."

House felt a pang of guilt at his friend's sad expression. All this was far more than Wilson had bargained for. He didn't deserve any of this.

"It's okay, Wilson. This is more... far more, than I've had since I became a slave. It's going to be all right." He lightly rested his hand on his friend's shoulder. Wilson managed a small smile. 

"Yeah, we can do this. Do you want me to order Chinese? Celebrate your return home." As if this was something to celebrate. 

House shook his head. "No, no more take out. It's too risky. They might be watching."

"You don't think you're being a little paranoid?"

"No," House said flatly. Tritter was out there, and he didn't want to risk this little sanctuary. "I need to have a shower." He had been scrubbed down by the kid at the police station but he felt dirty, violated. He'd almost lost it there at the station; he'd gone so far into the headspace of being a slave that he hadn't been able to get out until he saw Wilson. 

Wilson looked at him, his eyes soft, as if he knew why House wanted to have a shower. House hoped he didn't - that he would never know. "Of course. I'll be outside, yell if you need me."

* * *

House left the door to the bathroom and bedroom open, because a slave was owed no privacy. He hoped Wilson would stay away; he didn't want him seeing this.

After getting undressed House looked at himself in the mirror. His waist was ringed with dark bruises where the chains had held him tight the night before, under his collar the skin was the same. Other bruises mottled his body. 

His fingers when he probed his asshole came away without blood although there was a lot of soreness there. All in all the damage could have been worse.

In the shower he turned the water up as high as he could, grabbed the soap and began scrubbing. 

He knew that everything wasn't going to be okay. He could lie for Wilson's sake and pretend but this moment of peace was only fleeting, and any illusion of safety was just that - an illusion. Tritter was out there - waiting for him. One false move and House would be taken away from here forever. 

He scrubbed until his skin turned red but he couldn't remove the memory of Tritter's hands on him. Of the violation of his body, and his will. He couldn't remove the knowledge of what he had become. 

**Three Years Earlier**

House stood outside his patient's room and watched the parents with their son. Timothy was very sick. The little boy would be dead in a few hours if they couldn't find out what was killing him.

His mind churned over the symptoms. He knew Timothy had been abused in the past by his father, and he suspected it was ongoing. The kid being sick now could be a coincidence, but all his instincts were telling him that there was a connection.

If his father had caused this than it had to be some sort of poison. They'd tested for a whole array of heavy metals and they had all come back negative. What the hell was the father feeding to his son?

"Doctor House, can I help you?" He looked up to see that the impatient voice belonged to a nurse. "You're blocking the corridor."

He was about to launch a verbal attack on the woman when his attention was caught by a shiny gold band on her finger. The nurse followed his gaze.

"Got married last Sunday," she said proudly.

"Congratulations. Send me a card for the divorce." He barely registered the nurse's sound of annoyance. Gold. One metal they hadn't thought to test for.

Memories came to the surface. His stay in Egypt when he was ten. His father had been stationed at the marine base there for a few months. They had been in the middle of nowhere and there was nothing to do. Desperate to get out of the house and away from his father's scrutiny he'd taken to exploring - and searching for mummy's tombs. He'd never actually found one, but he'd learned a lot of what his father had called 'useless shit'. Like the fact that stannous chloride turned bright purple when mixed with gold. And he had a vial of that very substance back in his apartment, a long kept souvenir of his time in Egypt.

He hurried to the elevator. He needed to get home and retrieve the chemical. His father hadn't approved of his mummy hunting ways, but he was pretty sure that they were going to help bring Timothy's father down. He almost smiled at the poetic justice of it.

It took him nearly an hour to get home, find the chemical and get back to the hospital on his bike. As he took the elevator up to Timothy's room his mind was working furiously on how best to expose Brad. He needed to get the man just after he'd been handling the gold, and before he washed his hands. He was probably using gold sodium thiomalate, an arthritis remedy that was rarely used in the States but was common in Mexico - where Brad often went on business. A little of that sprinkled on Timothy's cereal and the result was a very sick child in a hospital bed. He didn't know Brad's motivations - maybe he wanted to get rid of his kid, maybe he just liked watching him suffer. It didn't matter, House had known since he was a child that some people were just monsters.

He saw the activity as soon as he got off the elevator. Brad and Claire were outside their son's room. Claire was crying, Brad was just standing there, not even comforting his wife. Several medical staff could be seen in the room but House could see that they weren't clustered around the bed, working frantically over Timothy. As he watched they all began to file out. A sheet had been pulled up over the boy's face. Timothy was dead.

House stood rooted to the spot. He'd had the solution. He'd just been too late, Timothy had been too sick. His father had killed him.

He started moving towards the room. Brad spotted him first.

"Well, if it isn't the famous doctor? Come to see what you've done?" he sneered. "My son is dead."

House went up to him and grabbed one of Brad's hands in his own, holding tight.

"What the fuck are you doing? Let go of my hand." Brad pulled back and got away. House held up his own hand. It was stained purple.

"Proving that you're a murderer."

Brad's face darkened. "You're crazy!"

"You've been feeding the kid sodium thiomalate. The residue is on your hands." Brad looked down at his own hand which was also purple.

"You're just trying to cover up your own incompetence. You said you'd save his life. And you failed. I bet your father would be so proud of you. His useless failure of a screw up kid. You're a pathetic waste of space." Brad pushed him away hard and turned away.

A red mist of anger filled his vision and House didn't even think. He just took his cane and swung it at the man's back. It connected with a thud and drove an anguished sound out of Brad.

House followed the blow up, launching a punch at Brad as he began to turn back. He connected solidly with the man's jaw.

Brad staggered back, shaking his head, and House closed in on him, his fists raining blows. "You bastard! You killed him!"

Brad started fighting back, his own fist catching House a glancing blow. House was peripherally aware of the boy's mother screaming and sounds of running feet. There were people shouting as he wrestled with Brad. He began to stagger under the weight of the other man, and felt fists pummelling his body. Blindly he swung back, before tumbling to the ground.

Brad aimed a kick at his fallen body and House grabbed his ankle, jerking him off balance. He took advantage of the opportunity to feel for his discarded cane. Grabbing it by the handle he swung again and again at the other man.

"House! House!" He heard her before he saw her. Cuddy advancing on them. "Somebody stop them!"

Hands grabbed for him, pulling him away and then holding his arms behind his back. He struggled to free himself but they held him tight.

"House! Stop it!" Cuddy said, moving closer to him. She put a hand on his face and it came away smeared with blood. "That's enough. God, House. What have you done?"

He looked past her to see Brad lying on the ground, groaning. Several hospital staff were bending over him. The floor was stained with blood.

House slumped in the hands of the people holding him. The adrenaline from the fight was draining out of him and he felt exhausted and empty.

"He was poisoning his son, Cuddy. Sodium Thiomalate. Probably picked it up in Mexico."

"House... that's a serious accusation." Cuddy said worriedly. "Can you prove it?"

"Test the blood for gold. You'll find it's off the scale." House didn't have the energy to explain further. He knew Cuddy would cover all the bases.

"We're going to have to call the police, I can't keep this quiet," Cuddy said. House understood. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. His patient was dead. 

"Do what you have to do."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical case taken from the show.

**Present day**

A couple of days passed without further incident, and then Wilson received a call from the hospital. He had to go in - one of his patients was having a crisis. Wilson was officially on leave for another week but this was a patient he had been treating for years, and Wilson was the only doctor he trusted. 

"I'll stay here," House said. "Just chain me to the bed before you go."

"No, I'm not leaving you alone again." Wilson knew that something had happened to House when he was in police custody although House refused to discuss it - saying that it was nothing that hadn't happened before. He was still moving stiffly although better than a couple of days ago - the Vicodin helped with that. "It's too risky. The SAC are due for another visit."

"If I'm chained it will be okay."

Wilson didn't like to think what would happen if the SAC came to the apartment when Wilson wasn't there and they found House chained to the bed. He'd be completely at their mercy – and after their last encounter Wilson didn’t trust the SAC. Wilson might pass the inspection but at what cost to House? Besides that he couldn't bring himself to do that to House - to chain him to a bed for hours on end, with no one to free him in case of an emergency.

"No! You'll come with me to the hospital. I am _not_ chaining you to the fucking bed."

House seemed to shrink in on himself at Wilson's stern tone and he bowed his head. "Yes sir, sorry, sir."

The transition from a seemingly normal House to a cowed slave was something Wilson had seen a few times now, and it never stopped saddening him. Two years of abuse had gone into House being this afraid. 

He gentled his tone. "Look, I just don't want anything happening to you while I'm not here."

House didn't say anything, he just nodded mutely and Wilson sighed. He constantly felt like he was in a no-win position with House. He needed to protect both of them, but any time he asserted his 'authority' he felt like he was joining the ranks of the owners - the _masters_ and distancing himself even more from his old friend. In all their years of friendship he'd never felt a need to censor his words around House, it was one of the thing he enjoyed most about the relationship they had - that he didn't have to put on a persona around House. They'd often hurled cruel barbs at each other, and still been able to have a beer at the end of the day. Now he realised that what he said, and even the tone of voice he used, _did_ impact upon House - whether House wanted it to or not. He didn't know much about how slaves were trained to obey - but from what he had seen so far he realised that House had undergone that training. Some of how he reacted was completely beyond his conscious control. Wilson would have to be very careful around him to avoid triggering that reflex reaction.

"Come on, House. We need to get going. It'll be okay." He said and led his silent friend out of the front door. 

In the car he helped House with the harness and then the hood - hating that he had to secure him like that. It all seemed totally unnecessary and just done for the purpose of humiliating the slaves. When he'd said that to House once House had laughed at him. "Of course, slavery is supposed to be punishment, Wilson. The idea is to never miss a chance to remind a slave just what he is."

Now as Wilson looked at him, a black hood covering his head, his body completely immobilised with straps, he knew that there was no chance of a slave forgetting what they were - not even for a moment.

By the time they arrived at the hospital the night shift had started so mercifully the staff parking lot wasn't full but as he led House into the hospital at the end of a leash Wilson began to realise why House had been so desperate not to come here. 

They entered the foyer and the nurse at the reception desk looked up. She was a nurse House used to be particularly rude to and her eyes widened when she saw who Wilson had at the end of a leash. Then she smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile.

"You'll have to leave the slave in a Slave Cell, Doctor Wilson." She called out, indicating the cells that lined one wall. They were small, each just had a bench for a slave to sit on and a water bottle affixed to the wall. The fronts were clear so everyone could see the slaves. One was already occupied by a slave.

"Don't be ridiculous. House doesn't need to go in one of those." Wilson protested.

"Staff aren't permitted to have slaves with them in the hospital because they can't properly supervise them while they're working. He needs to be left in a cell. Hospital regulations. No exceptions."

Wilson remembered a memo going around to that effect a year or so ago. He couldn't remember paying much attention to it at the time, or the reasons for the directive. 

They were attracting the attention of the night security guard who came forward, a hand on the gun at his waist.

"Is there a problem with this slave?" He looked House over, his lip curling in disgust. "He needs to be put in a cell while you're here." He opened the door of the nearest one and gestured to House. "Get in, slave or I'll put you in myself. Leave the cane with your owner."

House handed his cane over to Wilson and entered the cell, sitting down on the bench facing out into the hospital. The guard shut the door and slid the bolt home.

"He'll be fine here Doctor Wilson. Can't have slaves wandering around the hospital, you know that."

"That 'slave' used to be a Department Head here only three years ago - you know _that_.”

The guard shrugged. "Well, he's not now. Now he's just a piece of trash slave who has to sit in a cell." He swaggered off, taking a stance near the row of cells.

Wilson looked at House in despair but House's head was down as he stared at the ground.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, House. I'll talk to Cuddy when I come back to work about changing the rule for you." There was no answer and after a moment Wilson left, hurrying off to be with his patient. He needed to deal with that situation and then get House the hell out of here. 

Once he was gone the nurse, Josie, smiled. This would be good. She called a relief to come over to the desk and approached the cells.

"Look up, slave."

House didn't look up and she frowned. "Look up or I'll get the guard to come over here and make you. He's bored; it will be a bit of fun for him."

House looked up, contempt in his eyes. "Still haven't done anything about that donut habit I see," he drawled, his eyes going to her fairly ample padding.

"And you're still an asshole." Josie said. "Is that a literal asshole, _Doctor House_? I hear that slaves make good fuck toys. Maybe if Wilson brings you here a lot we can put you on a roster. There'll be a lot of people wanting to try that out. Maybe we can do it in front of the clinic to keep the patients entertained."

The memory of Tritter, and what he had done, and threatened, and the fear of what he was going to do flooded through House and he looked down again.

"I said, look up, slave! I have a present for you."

When he looked up again she spat in his face, messily and then again. Spittle ran down his cheek. The guard laughed and Josie smiled. "We're going to enjoy having you here to play with, _Doctor House._ "

* * *

It was eight at night when Cuddy returned to the hospital. She'd already left once, but had forgotten some papers she needed to prepare for a fundraising meeting in the morning. They were hoping to raise money for the ER department, the most neglected area of the hospital. They were desperately in need of new equipment and human resources. 

When she walked into the building she could immediately see a nurse and two guards gathered in front of the slave cells. She felt a flare of anger. She hated that the slave cells were necessary but it had been worse when staff, and patients, had been allowed to keep their slaves with them. The last straw had come when she'd found that the head of cardiology was using his slave as a reward system for the interns. She'd issued a directive that all slaves were to be kept in the cells while their owners were in the hospital and that the hospital wasn't providing a baby-sitting service for slaves. The few staff members who owned slaves had made other arrangements.

All the staff had also been informed that the slaves in the cells were not to be harassed. That went double for when the staff were supposed to be working. She wouldn't have mistreatment of slaves while she was in charge of the hospital. 

She stalked up to the cells, startling the staff who were gathered there. "Don't you all have work to do? You're not paid to harass some poor slave." They quickly scattered, murmuring apologies in their wake. 

She glanced into the cell to check on the slave and make sure they hadn't come to harm and then gasped when she realised that the 'poor slave' stuck in the cell was her former department head and one time lover.

"House! What the hell are you doing here?" What had Wilson been thinking, bringing him here?

House was sitting on the hard bench in his cell and rubbing his face on the long sleeve of his jacket. He scowled at her and she got the impression he'd rather that she hadn't seen him.

"Role playing being a slave," he said, the sarcasm forced. "With that black power suit you could be the mistress but next time leather is hotter..." 

It was a weak effort, and it broke her heart rather than annoyed her, but she rewarded him with a roll of her eyes. _Act normal_ , she told herself, _that's what he wants. He doesn't want your pity._

She looked around for the errant security officer. "You, come over here and open up this cell."

"But, Doctor Cuddy, your order was that slaves not working in the hospital have to be kept in the cells," he protested.

"He'll be in my custody. Now do what I asked unless you want to have your ass out of here by end of shift."

He shot her a look but opened the cell door up. "Get out here, slave." He roughly ordered, trying to get back some authority. 

"That will be all," Cuddy said and then turned her back on him, watching House make his slow way out of the cell. There was a trace of gratitude in his eyes as he nodded at her.

"Come with me, I need to pick up some papers from the ER," she said briskly. 

He followed her - where else would he go? He didn't talk as he had nothing to say. While they made their way through the corridors of the hospital he caught the hostile glances of the staff and patients. He dropped his gaze and stared at the floor as he walked. He didn't think he could fall lower than he had in the last three years, but walking the hospital as a despised slave, when he had once been a world famous diagnostician broke something inside of him that he didn't think was still there. 

Once they were in the relative safety of an empty elevator cabin she asked her question again.

"So, what are you doing here?" 

"Wilson had some dying patient who needed him to hold their hand. He didn't want me to stay at the apartment alone, after the scene with the SAC the other day. So he decided to do the 'bring your slave to work day' thing."

"I'm sorry that they were giving you a hard time back there. I hope no one hurt you." She asked it half as a question, half looking for reassurance.

He just shrugged. No, they hadn't _hurt_ him. What was a little humiliation, and some saliva in his face, after what Tritter had done to him?

She didn't look satisfied but the elevator doors opening stopped him from having to answer.

Once they were in the ER she went to the office in the corner to get her papers while he lingered outside, his ears catching the various conversations that were going on. The nearest to him was a teenager sitting on a gurney, his parents beside him. 

"Night terrors can be explained by post-traumatic stress disorder," the young doctor attending them was explaining to the worried parents. "Have you experienced any trauma in the last few months?" He addressed the boy, who shrugged in typical teenage fashion. 

"No, nothing like that," the mother said. Then she thought for a moment. "Oh,he did get hit in the head in a lacrosse game a few days ago."

The doctor nodded and made a note on his clipboard. "That will be it. The symptoms fit with concussion. He'll be okay once he's had chance to heal."

House wasn't so sure. The teenager had been swinging his leg on the gurney and House had seen the kid's leg jerk. There was something wrong, more than some concussion from a lacrosse game.

"It's not concussion!" He approached the small cluster of people. The parents looked up, surprised, and then surprise turned to anger when their eyes focused on the collar around House's neck. 

"What the hell? Get away from our son, slave!" The father yelled at him, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of leg jerking kid.

"Something is messing up little junior's brain and this moron," he indicated the doctor, "this moron thinks it's just a concussion. Now, let me have a look at your spawn and I'll tell you what's wrong with him. Besides being sixteen and mute."

He tried to step around the man blocking his way. The man pushed him away and then punched him hard on the chin, and kneed him in the groin on the way down. House went down, drawing himself into a ball of pain on the floor.

"Oh my God!" Cuddy cried, coming out of the office and dropping to her knees next to House.

"Doctor Cuddy? What is happening here? Who is that slave?" The junior doctor asked, his eyes flashing from the still angry father, to the slave on the ground, to his boss. 

House groaned and rolled over to a sitting position. His jaw was already sore, and his balls felt crushed. Fuck, he was too old for this shit. With an effort he focused on the kid who still sitting on the gurney, mouth hanging open in shock. 

"Are you tired?" He asked the kid.

"What? No, I'm not tired." The kid looked more confused by the minute. 

"Then why did your leg twitch?"

"Get the fuck out of here, slave! Before I pick you up and throw you out." The father screamed at him. House looked up at him.

"That leg twitch is what we call a myoclonic jerk. It's very common when you are falling asleep. Your respiration rate falls and your body sometimes interprets this as the body dying so it sends a pulse to wake you up." House used his sleeve to wipe at his face again. This time a smear of blood showed up on the cloth. 

"So?" The junior doctor said. "So what?"

"So he's not asleep, he's awake." House said brusquely, his tone clearly indicating that he thought the other doctor was a moron.

The doctor’s face reddened and took a step forward, his foot raised - ready to kick the helpless slave. 

"Wait!" Cuddy called out, moving to stand in front of House. "Doctor Jacoby he might be right. You are new so you don't know. This slave used to be the head of diagnostics here. This is Doctor House, I'm sure you've heard of him."

Jacoby stared down at the slave sprawled on the floor. Of course he'd heard of Doctor House, who hadn't? The man was infamous. He'd disappeared a few years ago. If this slave was Doctor House…

He realised the parents of the boy were watching on in confusion. 

"I... I... he might be right," he admitted. "We'll have to do some tests."

"Admit him," Doctor Cuddy ordered, "Doctor Foreman's team will take over the case tomorrow."

Jacoby nodded and drew the parents away without any further words to the slave. As the teenage boy passed House he muttered a 'thank you'.

Once they were gone Cuddy helped House up off the floor. 

"Are you insane? What is your problem? What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

House didn't answer her; he seemed far away, staring after the family. After a few moments she heard him say, 'cool', accompanied with a tiny smile.

"I still got it," he said to Cuddy. For the first time in three years he felt like a doctor again, like someone who had some worth. Even the father and Jacoby yelling at him hadn’t made him revert back to a timid grovelling slave. For a few moments he'd been himself again as his professional abilities came surging back. 

He wanted to keep on feeling like that. He wanted his puzzles back. He wanted his life back.

* * *

Wilson finished with his patient as fast as he decently could, considering the man was dying. He hated having to leave House locked in a tiny cell in the lobby of the hospital. It had never bothered him overly seeing slaves there before - it had seemed the safest place for them - but now it was his best friend being caged it seemed cruel and inhumane. Everything about slavery seemed designed to humiliate and degrade the slave as much as possible - from the hood and harness in the car, to the metal collars around their necks and the cells they were put in.

He hurried back to the lobby and House's cell but he wasn't there. Panicked, he hurried over to the reception desk and asked if anyone had seen what happened to him. The nurse on duty shrugged.

"Doctor Cuddy took the slave with her. They're in her office I think." 

He started to go in that direction and she threw after him. "Better knock before you go in." She smirked. "Everyone always said that Doctor Cuddy was hot for him - now she doesn't even have to ask."

He glared at her but hurried off. Cuddy wouldn't take advantage of Greg's situation, would she?

He entered the office without knocking and instantly saw Greg lying down on the couch, Cuddy was bent over him.

"Cuddy! What are you doing to him?"

She looked up, puzzled. House looked startled for a moment and then leered.

"Did you think she was fucking the poor helpless slave?"

Wilson blushed and Cuddy rounded on him in anger.

"How dare you! Do you think I would?"

"No, no..." he spread his hands. "I just... what are you doing?"

He looked again at House and saw that his face was bruised and his lip split.

"What happened to you?"

"Patient's father hit me, of course." House looked happier than he had since Wilson had bought him. "I still got it."

* * *

It was hard to reconcile the idea of House diagnosing some kid with leading a slave through the parking lot on the end of a leash. Wilson had talked with Cuddy and House about him getting back to work in some capacity. He hadn't seen how it would work until Cuddy proposed the solution.

House would work in the hospital as a janitor every day. As Wilson's personal slave it was his right to put him to work wherever he wanted - the SAC couldn't object to that, and he wouldn't have to leave him chained up in the apartment all day.

For it to work though House would really have to _be_ a janitor for most of the day. Cleaning the floors and toilets, a collar around his neck. The word 'slave' written on the back of his coveralls. 

When someone needed a consult they would call him in. It was like the Baraku in House's story about Japan. The janitor from the lowest social caste who was called in when all the other doctors failed. That aspect appealed to House, even if the cleaning didn't. 

Of course their plan meant Wilson would have to lead him into the hospital every day on the leash. Wilson felt sick at the thought.

They got to the car and House got in the back. Wilson fastened the chains of the harness around him.

"It won't be easy, House. You have a lot of enemies in the hospital and I can't watch over you all day. “Wilson said sadly.

House swallowed hard. "I know, but what else can I do? I can't sit in that apartment all day - chained up like a dog waiting for you to come home. And this will be a chance for me to work again - as a doctor. When I was diagnosing that kid, I wasn’t afraid."

Wilson fingered the black hood. 

"I need this, Wilson. It’s not going to be easy but you’re going to have to treat me like a slave when we’re in the hospital. You need to make it look good. You’re going to have to do worse things than put a hood on me. I need you to be able to do this.” House looked at him intently. 

Wilson nodded and took a deep breath, slipping the hood over House’s head. “I will House. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” There was no verbal answer but Wilson could see his body relax somewhat, even with the hood in place. 

Wilson drove home, his heart heavy. He’d do whatever it took but it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to work with House like they had before. Side by side, having lunch in the cafeteria, watching people from the balcony outside their offices. Not like this. Not as owner and slave.

Well, as House would say - you can't always get what you want. At least he had what he _needed_. House back in his life. For better or worse. 

**Three Years Earlier**

Wilson came to bail him out in the morning. House stood silently through the paperwork and the ritual handing back of his possessions. Wilson did his usual job of charming everyone in sight. House was sick of the whole thing. The night in jail had been the hell it always was and all he wanted was his Vicodin and enough scotch to get drunk and forget everything.

"You were right about Timothy," Wilson said once they were alone outside. "The heavy metal test showed that gold was off the chart. Of course your stunt with the stannous chloride isn't admissible in court but it's enough to get the police investigating. The scans show evidence of past abuse - which no doubt you knew about."

"None of it matters now, patient's dead."

Wilson shook his head. "It matters if you want to keep your ass out of prison, and your medical license intact. So far you're guilty of not reporting suspected child abuse in a timely manner and serious assault. Brad had two fractured ribs from your cane. "

"He's a military veteran, I'm a crippled doctor - how's that going to look in court?"

"Court may be the least of your problems. You assaulted a patient's family member. Cuddy's under pressure from the Board to show you the door. You may not have realised it but she was leading around a group of donors when you were going all vigilante. Two of them have already withdrawn their pledges, and the rest are wavering. After that mess with Tritter the Board's been itching for an excuse to get rid of you, and you just handed them a huge one."

House shrugged. "I've got tenure."

Wilson shook his head. "Unprofessional conduct will lose you that, and you can't get much more unprofessional than assaulting the father of a patient."

"A _murderer_. Let's not lose sight of that. Pretty sure that's against the law too."

"He's a decorated war hero, House."

 _Yeah, well so was my Dad,_ House thought _, and look what an asshole he was._ His father had never managed to kill him, but that was about all he hadn't done. Timothy might be better off dead than in a living hell like that.

He began to walk down the sidewalk. Annoyingly Wilson followed him.

"House! House, wait up. Where are you going? The car's this way, I need to take you back to the hospital so you can explain what happened. Cuddy's waiting for you."

Fuck that. He kept walking. Wilson grabbed at his arm, pulling him off balance. House stumbled and then swung around, his grip tightening on his cane as he lifted it.

Wilson let go of his arm and held his hands up. "Whoa, House. What the hell has gotten into you? Were you going to _hit_ me?"

House lowered his cane. "No, I was going to stick this where the sun doesn't shine." He turned away and began walking in the opposite direction. Wilson kept yelling at him but House hailed a passing taxi and made good his escape. His last sight was of Wilson, standing hands on hips in the middle of the road looking after him.


	11. Chapter 11

"What are you doing?" Wilson asked. He'd just taken a long shower to try and relax, he felt like a tight bundle of nerves after the events of the last few days. On top of all the anxiety the current situation was causing him he felt a burden of guilt at the plight of his friend. However bad this was for him it was ten times, a hundred times, worse for House. However foolishly House had acted to get himself into this position he didn't deserve what had happened to him. Nobody deserved this.

While he'd been showering and changing House had been cleaning. The kitchen was immaculate, the floor clean enough to eat off. Each tile shined. The wooden floor of the main room was also shining, as if the floor had just been laid. Wilson wondered if slaves were given special lessons on how to clean. He didn't think he could achieve this level of perfection.

"Rowing," House answered his question flatly. He was surrounded by Wilson's books. He was dusting each one and putting them back on the bookshelves. Looking closely Wilson could see that he was arranging them by specialty. "And trying to find something to listen to on your crappy playlist."

"Amy Winehouse, and Adele - that's all you have?" House asked, pointed at Wilson's open laptop sitting on the coffee table. "I always knew you were secretly a girl."

"I have other stuff," Wilson said defensively. Then he realised how much House must have missed his music. Next to medicine it was his greatest passion. Besides playing the guitar and the piano he used to have a huge vintage record collection, and an expensive sound system. Wilson had often seen him relaxing at the hospital with earbuds in; listening to sounds only he could hear. "I can download whatever you want, blues maybe, some jazz..." he offered.

House went back to his cleaning, his face averted. "Yeah. John Lee Hooker, Doctor John, anything like that."

"Why don't you stop doing that for now? You don't need to work all the time." His leg must be killing him after all this activity. "We can kick back for a bit, have some beers, watch some television, like we used to."

House shook his head. "No. No alcohol for slaves. And I've got to do the bathroom after this." He was obsessed. Wilson had seen House obsessed before, but never over cleaning.

Suddenly the sharp contrast between old House and new House was too much for him. He grabbed the dusting cloth out of House's hand and looked down at House where he was kneeling.

"Stop cleaning and sit on the couch with me so we can watch some porno, or monster trucks or whatever the fuck you want. I can't take this anymore." If House was a slave who had to take orders then Wilson was going to order him to do what he wanted.

House stood up, not looking cowed like Wilson had half expected. "Give me the damned rag and let me do my job or I swear  _you_  will be the one ending up in that cage."

"No! You're my friend. I don't want you to be a slave, and I don't want you to be a janitor in the hospital. I can't change either of those things, but I can decide what you do at my home." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, House, you need to understand. You've been gone for three years. I need my friend back sometimes, even if it's only for a few hours. I can't... I can't see you as a slave here, as well as out there." The strain of the last few days came out in his voice, his words muffled with unshed tears.

House's gaze softened. "Wilson, I told you. If the SAC come, and this place isn't spotless... You've seen what they can do. I don't want to go back."

"They won't come tonight," Wilson said, smiling a little, hoping to reassure House. "Please, just give me this one night. Tomorrow, I'll help you clean. We will be prepared if they come - I promise you." He touched House gently on the arm, something he would have never done before all this happened.

House bowed his head. "Okay, just tonight." It wasn't like he didn't want it too.

"Can I ask you one more thing? Can you cover the collar up? I'm sorry - I know it's much worse for you, but the sight of that thing, and my tag on it. It just makes me sick." He felt ashamed by his own words - all that House had endured and he was struggling with this.

House was quiet for a moment. "It makes me sick too. I can't look at myself in the mirror. Since that day everything changed my own reflection horrifies me. But I can't conceal it; I can't forget I'm a slave, Wilson. This isn't 'let's pretend'."

"I know... but please, just the collar." It wasn't like he wouldn't still see the SAC tattoo on House's cheek. But he needed one normal night, just one.

House hesitated and then nodded, walking off to his room. When he emerged he was wearing a rolltop sweater. He almost looked like his old self. He had a two day stubble going, and his hair was growing; now it was close cropped to his head rather than the shaved head that he'd first had when Wilson found him. The bald head was dehumanizing - it made all the slaves look the same.

Wilson smiled and patted one side of the couch with his hand, he turned on the TV and they both watched it in comfortable silence, their legs up on the coffee table, a beer in their hand.

For House it was an agonizing memory of what used to be, and what he had lost. For Wilson it was a momentarily open door out of this living hell.

* * *

Wilson was woken the next morning by a heavy banging on the front door. He heard voices demanding entrance and then the door opening. House must have gotten to it first. He quickly pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and went to investigate, his heart pounding.

House was on his knees in the living room, hands laced behind his head. The rolltop of the night before was long gone and he was wearing ragged old clothes instead of his new ones. A mop and bucket were in evidence. He must have risen early to continue the cleaning Wilson had ordered him to stop the night before. Just as well as the visitors he had let in were two SAC officers. One of them was the older officer, Crowley, from their previous encounter who had been suspicious of Wilson's motives.

"Doctor Wilson, good to see your slave is working hard. This room looks spotless." Crowley caressed Greg's stubbly head. "And he let us in promptly this time."

"It's early - is there a reason for this visit?" Wilson was getting annoyed at these constant intrusions into his, and Greg's life.

"Just checking that you have made those changes we told you about on our last visit. I have a police report that the slave was taken into custody overnight because you didn't have a harness for him."

"I have one now, and chains for the bedroom."

"Good. We'll have a look. You get back to work, slave." He kicked the bucket beside Greg and its contents slopped over onto the wood. "Looks like you have something to clean up."

Wilson gritted his teeth as House bowed his head submissively and started cleaning up the spill.

Crowley walked off towards the bedroom as if he owned the place and Wilson had no choice but to follow, leaving House behind.

"This bed is still too soft for a slave, but you're getting there." Crowley said, feeling the mattress on the bed. "Take away this mattress and have him sleep on the base, or better still on the floor."

"I told you he needs a bed because of his disability. He can't work if he's crippled with pain."

The officer laughed. "You'd be surprised what a slave can live with." He tested the chains at each corner of the bed by tugging on them, they held fast. "What are you going to do with him when you are at work? You can't leave him unsecured and he needs to be working. If you don't work them hard slaves get lazy and into trouble."

"I've arranged for him to work at the hospital as a janitor. He starts Monday. He'll be under my supervision."

The officer frowned. "That's irregular - he used to work there according to his file."

"Not as a cleaner he didn't. Believe me he doesn't want to go. Half the staff there hate him - he's in for a rough time. I took him with me yesterday and locked him in the slave cells there. My boss had to stop people from harassing him."

"Hmmm. Well, we'll be checking that he's being properly worked there." His gaze lit on the cage and he turned to his younger companion. "Go and fetch the slave, Rollins. Have to check the fit of this cage."

Wilson paled. House hadn't been in the cage of course, Wilson never intended for it to be used. Rollins came back with House on the end of a chain leash attached to this collar.

"In you get, slave. Let's check this cage that your generous master has provided you with is a good fit. Wouldn't want you to be cramped, would we?"

House dropped to his knees and entered the cage. He couldn't lie in it properly; he had to curl up on one side. Rollins slammed the door shut and the men all stared at the slave in the cage. House stared at the ground.

"Well, he won't be comfortable but then we don't want him to be, do we?" Crowley said with a laugh. "He can stay in there while we check the rest of the place."

They toured the rest of the apartment, checking House's work and Wilson's feed supply. All the bars on the windows were checked. Finally Crowley nodded. "Okay, that's all good. Go and get him, Rollins."

When Rollins returned with House Wilson could see he was stiff and sore from being in the cage so long. He dropped to his knees again, with his hands laced behind his head.

"He has some bruising." Rollins ran one gloved hand over House's face and then pulled aside his collar to reveal some more dark mottling that Wilson hadn't spotted.

"The police had him for the night." Wilson explained and both officers laughed.

"That would explain it, I bet they gave you a good working over, didn't they, slave?" Crowley laughed again, giving House a pat on his head. "Well, we'll be going. Just one more thing. My boot is dirty." He looked down at his boot where the water had splashed over it earlier. "Clean it for me, slave."

House hesitated and Rollins swore at him and cuffed him over the back of his head.

"You heard the boss, slave. Clean his boot up."

House bent his head down, obviously knowing what was required. Wilson watched in horror as he licked the boot clean. Rollins kept him out at it until the boot was spotless. House knelt back, his head bowed.

"He was slow to obey. Shall we get him to do yours, Doctor Wilson?" Crowley said. Wilson was about to protest when he saw the fearful look House shot him. If he said no would that be taken as a sign that Wilson was being too soft on him?

Wilson nodded and hesitantly stuck a foot out, his eyes pleading with House for understanding. House bent down, tongue working at his best friend's shoes until they shone. Wilson felt sick. How was he going to look House in the eye again?

Crowley gave House another patronising pat on the head when he was finished and nodded. "Okay, we'll get going. Well done, Doctor Wilson. We'll be checking on him at the hospital as well but it looks like he's making good progress. You should get him to do your shoes like that regularly. It's one of the first things they teach slaves how to do. That, and how to be a good fuckhole of course."

They left and Wilson returned to where House was still kneeling, his head bowed.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, House. I'm so, so, sorry."

House's voice was hoarse when he answered. "Don't worry Wilson. You did the right thing. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. It's what I am, now."

"No, you're more than this, House. You are. Don't ever think that you're not."

House shook his head and Wilson slumped down on the couch in despair. There was nothing he could say to make this better.

"I'm going to my room," House said after a while. He limped off slowly, his shoulders slumped and his head down. Wilson heard the door close softly. House wasn't even up to slamming it.

* * *

An air of despair hung over the apartment after the visit from the SAC officers. Wilson knocked on House's door several times, proposing different plans - lunch, watch a game, play the piano, help him with a case. Every time House was just lying on his bed, unresponsive, not sleeping but not fully awake.

After Wilson ate a sad and lonely dinner by himself he tried once more, going to House's room only to find him gone from the bed. Alarmed, he went to the bathroom and saw House standing there, naked except for a towel about his waist.

"Damn, Wilson - don't you knock?" House yelled at him.

Wilson stood staring at him, frozen. His friend's torso was mottled with dark bruises. There was a thick line of bruises across his body, as if he had been chained for a long time. One of the bruises on his chest was the shape of a bootprint.

House saw him staring and slammed the door in his face.

Wilson stood there until he heard the shower come on. Again he was faced with the reality that his friend was now an abused and humiliated slave. What had been done to him wasn't even illegal. There was no-one to complain to, nobody who would care what had been done to him. The collar around House's neck changed everything, and took away all his rights.

* * *

It was an hour later before House walked into the living room, finding Wilson sitting on a couch with a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring at the TV without seeing it.

House had put the rolltop back on, concealing his collar. Wilson didn't need to see it right now, and the SAC probably wouldn't be back for a while.

House took two beers out of the fridge and sat next to Wilson on the couch, giving him one of the beers. His friend nodded but didn't say anything.

"Just ask what you want to. Waiting for the interrogation to start is the worst part," House said, taking a sip of his beer to fortify himself.

"I don't want to 'interrogate' you."

"You're concerned. You're Wilson, you can't help it. You want to know about the bruises."

"They're fresh, and bad. You should have told me. What did the police do to you?"

"Some people think a collar isn't enough, that a slave needs to be reminded all the time." House had run into more than one of those types. Tritter wasn't even the worst.

"House. I need to know, what they did... what they did to you..."

House stood up abruptly, his fragile calm shattered. He threw the beer bottle down; it hit the edge of the coffee table and shattered into pieces - sending glass flying into the air. "The cops chained me up tightly, that's all. I've had worse. Now drop it."

"Sorry..." Wilson said, his eyes wide in shock. House stared at him; there was a trickle of blood on Wilson's cheek. The glass must have cut it. Wilson didn't even seem to realise.

House leaned back down and touched Wilson's cheek with his hand, wiping the blood off.

"I'm sorry, Wilson. I hurt you. I didn't... I didn't mean to... you're always trying to help me. I don't know why you bother." He'd screwed up his own life and now he was dragging Wilson down with him. This nightmare was never going to end.

"It's okay, House. It's just a little cut. It doesn't even hurt."

House examined the cut, it was going to need stitches, three at least. "I'll get the first aid kit." He knew there would be one, probably two, Wilson was anal like that.

When he came back he gave Wilson an ice pack out of the freezer to numb the cut - there being no lidocaine in the kit. Once the area was numb he quickly put in the stitches, the first bit of doctoring he'd done in three years. Then he cleaned up, sweeping the broken glass off the floor and cleaning up the beer spill. He'd have to clean the floors again in the morning.

"I'm sorry, House - I shouldn't have asked you."

House couldn't believe Wilson was apologizing to  _him_. "It's not your fault, Wilson. None of this crap is. I'm the one who caused all this. I shouldn't have lost my temper at you. I'm a slave - what I did would have any other owner ordering a whipping."

Wilson looked at him, his eyes wide again. "Don't talk like that - don't ever say that." He put his face in his hands in despair. "I wish I could turn back time. I wish none of this had ever happened. I used to call you an ass all the time, but nobody deserves this."

"You were right, I  _was_  an ass. If I hadn't been I wouldn't have ended up being enslaved. I wouldn't have ended up broken. I thought I was broken before, but you're not as low as you can go until some bastard makes you clean your best friend's shoes with your tongue." House made a sound that might have been supposed to be a laugh but cut Wilson's heart to pieces.

In the heavy silence House stripped off the rolltop sweater and dropped it at Wilson's feet. "It's been a long day. I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Wilson."

"Goodnight, House," Wilson managed to say.

He heard House make his slow way to his bedroom, and then shut the door softly behind him.

Wilson touched his cheek where House had stitched it. The stitches were small and neat. The work of an expert Doctor. Wilson wouldn't have any scars.

Or none where they showed.

**Three Years Earlier**

He woke up the next morning to a thumping headache and the loud chatter of the television. He'd fallen asleep on the couch sometime during the evening. He grabbed his Vicodin off the table and downed a couple - that should take care of the headache. With a groan he levered himself to his feet, using the couch for support. His cane was hanging up halfway across the room and he slowly made his way over to it.

The empty Scotch bottle was on the coffee table, as was the remains of a pizza - he must have ordered one for dinner although he couldn't remember doing it. He left them where they were and went over to his answering machine. The light was blinking furiously.

The first couple of calls were Wilson - demanding that he get his ass back to the hospital. He erased them and then listened to the last. It was Cuddy.

 _"House, I had to suspend you. Too many people saw what you did. The Board is meeting tonight to decide whether you should be dismissed. House... I'm going to try and stall them but it's not looking good. Ever since Vogler, and then Tritter, they've been looking for an excuse to get rid of you. The medical board has requested a hearing as well. The police have been here. It's a mess, House. You need to come in and face the music. Wear a suit. Don't come in drunk, or hung-over._ Now _, House. In my office."_

He erased that message as well and threw the machine against the wall. To fuck with the lot of them. He didn't regret what he'd done. Damned if he was going to crawl back to the hospital and beg for his job.

He took another Vicodin and headed for the shower. Once he'd cleaned up he'd be able to think a lot better and decide what to do.

* * *

"House! House!" Wilson banged on the door. House hadn't shown at the hospital. He wasn't answering his phone. Wilson's mind supplied images of House lying on the floor in a pool of his own vomit only a few months ago. Maybe it had been an accidental overdose, maybe it had been something worse - Wilson had never been sure.

There was still no answer so he fished in his pocket for House's spare key and unlocked the door.

He glanced around quickly but there were no bodies on the floor. Just some empty bottles on the coffee table and the remains of a pizza. House's answering machine was lying on the floor. He quickly went through the rest of the apartment but there was no sign of House. Coming back to the living room he looked around. House's motorcycle helmet was missing from its normal spot and when he tried to think what else was missing he realised that House's guitar - the one he'd had since he was a teen - had been taken off the wall.

He looked down at the coffee table and saw something in the mess he hadn't seen before. A check. When he picked it up he could see it was made out to him. It was in the amount of $10,000 - which was what he'd had to put up to bail House out of jail. He turned the check over and on the back was written one word.  _Thanks_.

A chill went down his spine. There was something final about that message. House didn't repay money - not unless he was forced to and he rarely said 'thanks' to anyone.

He rang Cuddy and brought her up to speed and then he contemplated his next move. Go out and look for House? Or stay here and see if he came home? His mind was made up when he realised that he couldn't just sit here and do nothing while who-knows-what was going out with House. He scrawled a quick note of his own and took off. He'd find House in whatever Godforsaken bar he'd dragged himself to and make sure he got home. Then he'd talk some sense into him and they could plan a strategy that would keep House out of jail and in a job.

Seven days, and seven nights, of searching later and he had to concede failure.

House was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

When Wilson went into work on Monday it was with House on the end of a leash. House was dressed in a pair of fluorescent orange coveralls with the word 'slave' printed on front and back - in case anybody didn't see the collar around his neck or the tattoo on his cheek. The colour and markings were required for all slaves working in public places - both to humiliate and to deter them from attempting escape. House thought they might as well paint a target on his back.

Wilson had to put on a good show for anyone who might report them to the SAC so he gritted his teeth and led House right into the hospital lobby, still on the leash, and then handed him over to the guard on the door.

"See that he gets taken to the janitorial department and put to work. He'll be here when I'm here. Any problems, or complaints, come to me and I'll take care of them. No-one is to touch him but me, understand?"

The guard leered at House and took the leash from Wilson, gripping it tightly.

"Yes Doctor Wilson, I'll see that he's taken care of."

Wilson wasn't reassured but he had no choice but to leave House there. As soon as he could he would ensure that diagnostics had reason to call for him. He picked up his messages and went off towards his office without a backward glance.

"You, kneel over there out of the way and I'll get somebody to come for your sorry ass." The guard said to House. He pointed to a hitching post by the slave cells.

House bowed his head and went where indicated, kneeling down and putting his hands behind his back submissively.

His head was suddenly yanked up and back as the guard tied the leash to the post. It was tied high enough so that in a kneeling position he had to have his head stretched as high as possible to relieve the pressure on his throat.

The guard bent down and whispered in his ear.

"You might belong to Wilson, _Doctor House_ , but there are people here who still remember how you used to treat us. You thought you were better than us, smarter. Well, look at you now you piece of shit. You're nothing but a goddamn slave. You're not so smart after all, are you? You think your life as a slave is bad - it's about to become ten times worse. Now, you just kneel there and think about that. Don't even think about getting off those knees of yours." The guard looked around to make sure no-one was watching and then kicked House square in the balls. House tried to double over but the leash started to choke him and the guard laughed.

"Keep those hands behind your back, slave. No touching the merchandise." 

House straightened back up, tears coming to his eyes at the pain. The guard watched him for a moment more and then went back to his post. House continued kneeling, his eyes on the ground and his hands firmly clasped behind his back as the pain slowly receded. Around him the business of a busy hospital went on. Patients and their families passed through the lobby, doctors and nurses hurried from place to place. There was a familiar buzz in the air - something that he'd been part of for many years. He thought of all the years he'd worked here, as a doctor and as a Department Head. That time had never been smooth sailing, there had always been challenges for him, but he could never have anticipated something like this happening to him, not even in his lowest moments. 

When he saw a member of the janitorial staff approaching him, leash in hand, it was almost a relief. Working as a cleaner wasn't what he wanted, but it would be better than kneeling here, watching something he would never again be part of.

* * *

Wilson had really intended to go straight to diagnostics and get Foreman to request House's presence on a case but the team weren't in the office when he arrived and then he got waylaid with a consult on an urgent case. He was back in his office, about to go grab a sandwich and check on House, when there was a polite knock on his door. He looked up to see a guard standing there with House on his knees next to him, leashed and still wearing his slave coverall.

"Your slave was getting himself into trouble down in the ER. Apparently you left orders that only you were allowed to punish him. Otherwise we would have just caned him and put him back to work. "

Wilson stared at House - he would have thought that House could have behaved himself for just a few hours, given the circumstances. He guessed he should have known better.

House had yet another bruise on his face and now Wilson looked closer he could see his hands were manacled behind his back. The guard followed his glance and shrugged.

"We had to restrain him."

"Okay, I'll take it from here."

"Need you to punish him, sir. If he's going to be working here he needs to understand he can't behave like that."

Wilson looked at House and wondered what he was supposed to do? Then he saw the guard was holding out a thin cane. He was supposed to hit House with that? He saw red - he'd had enough of this whole damned thing. He was not going to cane House. That was insane. 

"No. I'm not caning him."

"You need to, sir."

"I don't _need_ to do anything. This slave is _my_ slave. I am his owner. I decide what he needs and what he doesn't need. Unlock those cuffs and leave him here."

"I'll have to report this to Doctor Cuddy," the guard warned, roughly wrenching at House's hands as he took the handcuffs off.

Wilson smiled coldly. "You do that. I'm sure she'll see it my way."

The guard left and Wilson went over to House who was still on his knees.

"House, are you okay?" House was shaking slightly.

"Oh my God!"

Wilson looked up at the exclamation and saw Cameron in the corridor behind them - her hand up to her mouth in horror as she stared at House. Foreman and Chase were standing behind her - their faces frozen in shock.

"House? You're a..." Cameron started to say and House looked up for the first time.

" _Slave_ is the word, Cameron. You'll love me now, I'm _really_ damaged." He looked at the other two. "You didn't tell her? Good choice. I'm sure she would have bought me before Wilson had a chance. I'd be wearing a pink collar."

It was a brave show but Wilson could see him trembling slightly. Having his former fellows see him like this was difficult for him, very difficult. 

"Why have you brought him here, Wilson?" Foreman said. "This isn't a safe place for him. With all the people he's pissed off in the past..."

Chase was holding out a hand to House, to help him to his feet. His gaze was averted, not making eye contact with his old boss and mentor.

House ignored him and struggled to his feet himself, rubbing his wrists where the manacles had bitten into them.

"House, you look..." Cameron started and then stopped, her hand reaching out but also stopping midway at House's glare.

Truthfully House did look awful. His face was bruised, and the skin pale - the slave tattoo standing out sharply against it. His once unkempt hair was gone, replaced by a buzz cut. The horrible collar around his neck was the most damning evidence of his new status.

"Look, let's all go into diagnostics and I'll explain." Wilson said, ushering them out of the hallway before they attracted unwanted attention.

* * *

"He's here as a _janitor_?” Foreman smirked at Wilson's explanation. "Well that's ironic."

"Just stay out of the closets," House rejoined. "If I find Chase and Cameron in one I may never recover."

"He has to work as a janitor but he'll be available to diagnostics if you need him. But you have to be discreet. The SAC are on our back. If they get a hint that House is not being treated as a normal slave they'll confiscate him and sell him. It's difficult for everybody but he has to be treated as a slave, in public at least."

The other three kept their eyes on him and nodded solemnly. They were finding it hard to look at House.

"Speaking of which, why were you causing trouble in the ER?" Wilson asked.

"Patient some moron was diagnosing with lupus," House explained. "It's never lupus."

"You can't just..."

"What? Act like a doctor? Like I haven't forgotten every scrap of medical training I've had? Do you want me to mop the floors like a good little slave and keep my eyes and mouth shut and let people die?"

"I don't want that, House, You know I don't. But I don't want you being..." he looked around, aware of the fellows listening in. He wasn't going to refer to the abuse House had suffered from free people here, in front of them.

"Just, try and be discreet, House. You can't go around calling the staff morons - not anymore. If you see something like that, contact Foreman and let him deal with it. He's in charge of diagnostics now; he'll call you in if he needs to."

"And in the meantime I can go and clean the bathrooms." House said bitterly.

Wilson had no answer for that, there was no way out. House was what he was.

"I'm sorry, House."

"Don't be, I brought this on myself," House answered. He stood up reluctantly. "I'd better get back to work." 

They watched him limp away from them, a lonely figure in bright orange coveralls. The lettering on the back proclaimed to the entire hospital what he was now.

"Wilson, this is never going to work." Foreman said when House was out of earshot. 

Wilson ran a hand through his hair. "What was my alternative? Leave him at Rent-A-Slave cleaning bathrooms?"

"You didn't need to bring him in here."

"If I left him at home all day he'd have to be chained to the bed. Do you think I should do that?"

Foreman shook his head. "No, but there has to be some other way."

"When you think of it let me know. In the meantime we have to make this work. We have to do everything we can to make this as bearable as possible for House - without getting him sent back to the SAC."

* * *

House's long first day was nearly over. He was stuck in the hospital until Wilson went home but Wilson had promised he'd leave at five today, and every other day that he could. Five was only half an hour away; he could drag his tired body around for another thirty minutes. He wearily walked along the corridor outside the third floor offices. He knew half the doctors who worked here, and some of them had been taunting him on and off all day as he cleared out their trash baskets and cleaned the bathrooms.

As he walked past Doctor Ayersman's open office door a voice called out to him.

"Get in here, slave."

With no choice but to obey he entered, standing just inside the doorway.

"What do you want, Ayersman?" It wasn't wise to talk like that to a free man but House was beyond caring. 

"Shut the door."

House felt the first stirrings of fear. He'd blackmailed Ayersman once into doing a risky transplant procedure - and then gone back on his word and told Ayersman's wife he'd been having an affair. Ayersman hated his guts. Now House was powerless against him. 

"Now!" Ayersman had stood up, and was staring at him, his eyes cold. 

He turned and obeyed, feeling trapped. "Look, Ayersman..."

"Shut your big mouth. Better yet, come here and I'll shut it for you." Ayersman had a gag in one hand. House swallowed hard.

"Wilson's expecting me..."

"In half an hour. Plenty of time for this." He held the gag up. "Open your mouth."

House clamped his jaw shut. Ayersman could turn him in for disobeying a direct order, but that would be better than whatever the other doctor had in mind. 

"If you don't open your mouth I'll report you to security. They'll take you to Wilson to be caned. When he doesn't do it - and we both know he won't - I'll make some calls to the SAC. I hear that they frown on slaves being owned by people they used to know. I bet they're all over the two of you. They'll take you back. Maybe they'll try and get Wilson charged with obstructing justice as well. Wilson would look very good in a collar, don't you think?" 

House couldn't take any chance of anything happening to Wilson. Not because of him. He blanked his mind and opened his mouth wide. 

Ayersman smiled approvingly and put the bit in his mouth, and then buckled it around the back of his head. 

"Strip down," he ordered and House took his coverall off, hesitating at his underwear.

"Those too, you can keep the t-shirt on. Wouldn't want you to get cold."

He pushed his boxers down and stepped out of them, feeling exposed. Ayersman leered at him, his eyes flicking over House's genitals and the ugly scar on his thigh.

“I bet they were glad to get rid of the defective slave. I hope Wilson didn’t waste too much money on you."

He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a chain leash which he clipped onto House's collar. 

"Now, let's make you comfortable," he said, tugging on the leash. He led House over to the office desk, and then left him standing there while he cleaned the surface of the files and paperwork that was accumulated there. 

"Bend over. Grab the desk legs with your hands."

House reluctantly bent over the desk, his chest against the hard surface, his legs uncomfortably bent. His hands wrapped around the legs of the desk on the other side. Ayersman secured one end of the leash tightly to a locked drawer so that House's head was kept pressed down, the collar half choking him. 

Ayersman laughed. "The famous Doctor House. Think you're so special don't you? Cuddy's pet genius. Well, you're a pile of crap, and you always were. I'm going to enjoy this."

He slapped House's naked ass.

"I'm sure you know what to do by now, slave. Spread your legs like a good little slut. This is the only thing you're good for now."

House stubbornly kept his knees locked together and Ayersman cursed him. House heard the sound of something cutting through the air and then the sharp pain of a belt on his naked ass. Three more strokes followed.

"Now spread them, or I'll use this belt on that crippled leg of yours until you can't walk. You'll have to crawl back to Wilson. And then I'll ring the SAC."

House shuffled his feet apart, there was no use courting more pain and delaying the inevitable. Ayersman kicked at his ankles until they were wide apart. House heard the sound of Ayersman's fly being opened. 

At least he used lube and a condom. He wasn't gentle but House was used to pain. He sent his mind far away while Ayersman was rutting into him and then tried to ignore the trickle of semen down his asscrack when the man finally came. His contorted position, and the gag, made each breath difficult, and he wanted desperately to be released.

Ayersman took his time pulling out, one hand pressing House further down into the desk's hard surface. Then finally he went around the desk to release the leash, taking the pressure off House's throat. House stayed bent over until Ayersman gave him permission to rise. 

Straightening up was painful in itself and House moved slowly. Ayersman kicked his clothes back to him.

"Cover yourself up." 

House did so, glad to be clothed, even if it was in the hated orange coverall. 

Ayersman roughly took the gag out of his mouth. 

"You're not going to tell Wilson about this, are you my little fuck toy?"

"I'm tagged - you shouldn't be using me without permission from my owner," House said flatly, his eyes on the floor.

Ayersman laughed. "Well, it's not like Wilson is going make use of you is it? Tell him what happened, and I'll make your life a living hell - and I'll contact the SAC and tell them he's giving you special favours. Maybe I'll tell them that you two were lovers. That should do the trick. You understand me, _Doctor House_?"

House had no intention of telling Wilson about any of this anyway. He nodded and Ayersman patted him patronisingly on the ass, making sure to hit the four vivid stripes there. House flinched and Ayersman laughed.

"There’s a good slave, I knew you’d see it my way. Limp along now, and I'll see you tomorrow. I'll make sure I have some friends here."


	13. Chapter 13

_  
_Wilson looked up as his office door opened and House slipped inside quickly, shutting the door behind him. House looked almost... relieved? Wilson noted sadly that his coveralls were stained in many places, and there were lines of exhaustion and pain etched on his face. His first day had obviously not been easy for him.

They'd known it would be difficult. Many of the staff at the hospital had been here when House had worked here, and House had never been known for his ability to get on with people. Wilson was sure that House had been the target of some verbal abuse and harassment during the day. He'd need to keep a close eye on the situation and make sure it was nothing that House couldn't handle. 

"Time to go," House said quietly. He looked tense and anxious. 

Wilson glanced at his watch. It was right on five o'clock. He had promised House they would leave at that time but he'd forgotten just how much work always built up when he'd been away from the hospital for a few days. He couldn't possibly leave.

"I need at least another hour," he said. "Take a seat, and I'll be done as soon as I can." He waved a hand towards his couch. House could stretch out there while he was finishing up. 

"You promised," House blurted out to Wilson's surprise. "You said we could leave at five."

"I know, but I really need to get this done. I'm behind after all the time off."

House's shoulder slumped and he moved towards the door without another word.

"You don't have to go, you can wait here."

House shook his head. "No, I can't. When I'm here I have to be working remember? Unless I'm on a consult to diagnostics. We can't risk it, not on the first day. I'll come back in an hour."

Wilson stood up. "No, we'll go. I can finish this at home." He grabbed his case and began putting his files into it. He wasn't going to make House go out there again. The look of relief on House's face was all he needed to see.

House stuck closely to Wilson's side as they made their way back down to the reception area. The leash was in Wilson's coat pocket but he sure as hell wasn't going to use it until they were outside. The guard at the hospital's main doors stopped them.

"Need to search the slave, Doctor."

"Is that really necessary? I'll vouch for him."

"Standard procedure, sir." He turned to House without waiting for Wilson's okay. "Hands on your head, slave. Spread your legs."

House handed his cane to Wilson and obeyed. The guard quickly patted him down, running his hands along his legs, groin, chest and then under his arms. 

"Open your mouth," he ordered when he was done and House did. The guard checked his mouth and then stood back. 

"Are you done?" Wilson asked, his voice cold. This was ridiculous. The guard was unmoved.

"Yes, sir." 

Wilson handed House his cane back. "Come on, let's get out of here."

The hated leash was clipped on as soon as they were outside and they quickly made their way to Wilson's car. House had survived his first day back at the hospital. 

* * *

Back at the apartment Wilson closed the door behind them with a sigh of relief. They couldn't completely relax - the prospect of an SAC inspection was always there - but at least they were alone for now. 

"Why don't you go and get changed out of that..." Wilson waved his hand at the orange 'slave' coveralls. "I'll start something for dinner."

When House returned his hair was wet and he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Wilson was happy to see that he was looking better than he had. 

"How was your day anyway? Security didn't drag you back to me after the first incident so I guess you must have kept out of trouble." Wilson put a plate of food in front of him. As usual House waited until Wilson had sat down and begun eating before he started eating himself. 

"I cleaned a few bathrooms, emptied some trash," House said, his voice casual but his eyes wary. There was something he didn't want Wilson to know. Probably something humiliating to him. "At least I didn't have to do clinic duty. Couldn't go getting slave cooties on the patients." He was trying to joke but there was bitterness in his voice. Wilson was pretty sure he'd swap a lifetime of clinic duty for what was happening to him now. 

When he was finished eating Wilson pushed away his plate and took a fat file out of his case. 

"Cuddy sent these to me. They're all the requests for consult the diagnostics department has had over the six months. Most of them are still open. The kids have been doing their best but they're not you. Look these over. Mark any of them which have promise and Cuddy will get in touch with the patients to come in. We need to get diagnostics busy so you can be called in to consult regularly."

Wilson could have had Foreman look the cases over of course, but his ulterior motive was to get House back into the groove as quickly as possible. He hadn't been working as a doctor for three years and for the last two of those years he'd been mentally and physically abused in many ways. He'd shown that his old skill was still there to some degree but the more medicine he could do the better. For everyone.

House took the file, staring at it for a moment before opening it up and taking out the first letter. He was quickly absorbed in reading and Wilson got out his own work to do. They worked side by side for another couple of hours. When House picked up a pen and began scribbling on the letters Wilson relaxed a little. House had written 'moron' next to one doctor's name. 

* * *

House's next couple of days at the hospital went better than his first. Now that he knew Ayersman was a threat he took care to stay away from that area of the hospital whenever he could and not get cornered again. Wilson and his former fellows all contributed towards getting him called away from the janitorial department as often as possible - to the extent that House's new boss complained to Cuddy about it. Wilson had been called into that meeting and later related to House that the man had been briskly informed that House would continue to be at the beck and call of the diagnostics department - the primary business of the hospital being saving lives, not having the cleanest bathrooms on the East coast. 

Minor harassments by the other staff continued of course, as did the daily humiliation of being led into the hospital on a leash, and being searched when he left at night, but there were no other incidents of abuse like he had suffered on the first day. If it kept at this level he could easily tolerate it. He'd had far worse abuse in his time working for Rent-A-Slave. Even Ayersman paled next to what some of the supervisors there had done to him. At least now he had Wilson, Cuddy and his former fellows on his side, a home to go back to at night, with good food, pain meds and a warm bed. And Wilson. Just having a friend there made a difference - even if at the same time he hated Wilson seeing him like this. 

The return to at least some degree of practising medicine also helped a lot. When he'd walked away from PPTH three years ago he had thought he was finished with medicine, and diagnostics, forever. After the first few months of being enslaved he feared he was and that he would never again be anything but a broken slave. Finding out that underneath all the fear and conditioning his mind still functioned, and his gift was still there, was a relief. Compared to that some name calling, and some minor abuse was nothing. 

As Thursday approached however even the small amount of peace he'd been able to achieve crumbled as he contemplated the upcoming 'meeting' with Tritter. It wasn't going to be easy getting away by himself - and impossible to accomplish without arousing Wilson's suspicions - but he had to do it. Tritter had both influence and knowledge. With a word in the right place he could shatter the current arrangement and get House sent back to the SAC and Wilson into trouble. It wasn't beyond him to set something up so that Wilson would be charged with aiding a slave - a charge which could result in Wilson being sentenced to slavery himself.

The thought of Wilson with a collar around his neck sickened House. He could never let that happen. He'd do whatever Tritter demanded, because he had to. He was already lost; he wasn't going to drag Wilson down with him. 

"I'm going out for a walk," he said on Thursday night, after dinner, in as casual a tone as he could manage. Wilson looked up at him, startled.

"You... what?"

"I'm going for a walk," House repeated, his heart pounding. "I need to get out of here, I need to get some air and think." He pulled on a warm coat and a scarf which would conceal his collar. 

"Okay," said Wilson, getting up and grabbing his jacket. "Let's go, then."

" _You_ are not going anywhere, _I_ am going... alone. That's the difference between 'I am' and 'we are'. Subtle but it's there."

Wilson stood there in what House privately dubbed his 'superman' pose - hands on hips. "You can't go out for a walk by yourself."

"But Moooom, I know the way back home. And I have this nice shiny tag with your name on if I get lost. Please, Mom, I have to go." House pleaded, a childish whine in his voice. 

"House, you can't," Wilson said again. "It's crazy."

House knew it was crazy, but he needed to get out - Tritter wasn't going to wait forever. Time to play the big guns.

"Why can't I go out? Because I'm a slave?" He went from frowning to looking sad in a second; Wilson was always a sucker for a sad and vulnerable person. "You told me you weren't going to treat me like I was a slave... like _your_ slave. If you order me not to go out I'm your slave and I have to obey. If I don't you can beat me, is that what you want?"

Wilson looked flustered and rubbed the back of his neck, as he always did when he was agitated. 

"House... of course I don't want to treat you as my slave. But it's dangerous for you to go out by yourself. You know that. Maybe you can hide the collar but there's a tattoo on your cheek. It's dangerous, for you _and_ for me." Wilson was almost pleading. House knew he was right, but Wilson didn't know about Tritter who posed a much more immediate threat to their safety. 

"You're right, but I can take care of myself. It's dark; I'm just going to walk for a few blocks. I just need to get out and just be myself for a bit. I haven't been able to do something like that for two years. I'll be back in a couple of hours. I can take a cell if you want."

Wilson was visibly torn but in the end he had to give in. His only other option was to exercise his authority over House, for real and House knew that he didn't want to do that. In Wilson's eyes he was only pretending that he was House's owner - that's the only way he could cope with it. For him to refuse House permission to leave the apartment would be to acknowledge that he really did own him. 

"Okay," he said at last, his reluctance obvious. "But please be very careful." He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a large plaster. "Put this over the tattoo." 

House went over to the mirror and put it over the tattoo. He couldn't help but notice that it was the same place Wilson had one, to cover the stitches from the coffee table incident. He looked at himself in the mirror. He almost looked like a normal person. His hair had grown a little, he had a two day beard, and neither the collar nor the tattoo could be seen. He straightened up, feeling a surge of confidence.

"Thanks, Wilson. I'll be careful. I won't do anything stupid."

Wilson nodded, his face still showing his worry and with an effort House left him and walked out of the door.

Walking down the road by himself was a strange sensation. On the one hand he was voluntarily going to meet up with someone who was going to abuse him, on the other he was walking down the street like a free person for the first time in years. If he could only slip into the night and never be seen again it would be perfect.

* * *

A black car pulled up beside him after he'd gone a couple of blocks and he swallowed heavily. The sensation of freedom instantly vanished.

The window rolled down and those cold blue eyes looked at him.

"Good evening, _Doctor House_ , please join me."

He opened the passenger side door and entered the car. It was too late to turn back now.

"Good boy," Tritter said, locking both windows and door from his side. A chilling cold pierced House's spine at the words.

Tritter started the car again and pulled smoothly away from the kerb.


	14. Chapter 14

"I'm sure you've been looking forward to this night," Tritter said, a cold smile on his face as he watched the road. 

"Yes, a date with an asshole cop. That's the dream of every slave." He might have to do what Tritter wanted, and it was going to be painful and no doubt humiliating, but he was going to be as much of an ass to him as he could be. He didn't have a helluva lot to lose at this stage. 

Tritter kept his cool. "You know, you can keep up the smart ass act for the next few minutes, and try and pretend you're still big man around the hospital. But after that you're going to know that you're no more than the fucking waste of space, slave crap, that you really are." He sounded drily amused rather than angered by House's words. 

"You've had this coming for a long time."

"So, do you give all the slaves around here rides in your car and special night outs with you? Or just the ones who stuck a thermometer up your ass?" 

"No, just the ones that pretend to be better than they are. Deep inside you know that you're nothing but a worthless slave pretending to be a real human being. Must be hard eh, Doctor House. One minute you're some fancy doctor, with everyone running around lying to protect you, and the next you're a piece of sub-human shit." He rubbed his groin obscenely. "I'm getting hard just thinking what I'm going to do you tonight."

House swallowed hard, the fear suddenly hitting him. He couldn't keep up the act any more. He turned his head away, staring out into the night as Tritter entered a gated neighbourhood and parked his car in the garage of a large house. As the garage door closed behind them House knew that he was trapped and completely at Tritter's mercy. 

Tritter turned off the engine. "We're home, honey. Now take off that coat, and the scarf and that sweet little plaster on your face. Let's turn the real boy into a slave again." House did so, still sitting in the car. Tritter leaned in, foul breath in House's face, and stroked the metal of the collar. "This suits you so well. You were born to be a fucking slave." He clipped a chain leash on the collar and going around the other side of the car he dragged House out. It was a cold night and House shivered in his thin shirt. "Don't worry - we'll warm you up quick enough," Tritter said when he noticed.

Tritter half pulled him through the internal door into the house. His cane had been left behind in the car and he limped heavily at the quick pace Tritter set. 

Inside the house there were four men, sitting around a poker table, playing cards. Tritter led him to a spot in front of them and yanked on the chain. "Kneel, slave."

House dropped to his knees and the men put down their cards and stared at him.

"An old, crippled, ugly slave? That's your big surprise for our poker night?" A blond guy in his thirties regarded House with a sceptical look.

"Don't be such as an ass, Dave. Don't talk about him like that - this piece of shit is one of the most sensitive slaves I've ever fucked. He squeals like a pig when you stick it into him - or at least he does when I do it. Your little piece there probably won't fill him up. This slave likes them big." 

Dave scowled at Tritter and then got up and moved over to House where he was kneeling, head down. He was joined by a heavy set guy with open, friendly features. The kind of guy who looked like he was everybody's friend, and you would never think he would be able to hurt anyone - not even a slave.

"Don't tell me that this is that doctor that screwed you over a few years ago?” The heavy guy asked. "Hoff, Haus? Something like that. He was a cripple too wasn't he?"

"House. Doctor Greg House," House said. He met the eyes of the man asking the question. Maybe he could form a connection to at least one of these guys - remind them that he used to be a person, that he used to save lives. Maybe they would stop Tritter from doing this. 

"Shut the fuck up, you piece of crap!" Tritter yelled at him, kicking him hard in the ribs, twice. House almost fell over from the force. "You don't open that big mouth of yours until I tell you. And then you open it nice and wide and suck. Is that clear?"

"Yes," House managed to get out, his voice choked as he tried to suck air back into his lungs.

"Yes, what?" Tritter aimed another kick at him, this time on his thigh, luckily his good one.

"Yes, sir. This slave is sorry, sir."

"You will be. Now, get up on all fours."

House struggled to assume that position, in many ways it was worse than kneeling. Kneeling he could still pretend he was a person. On all fours he was reduced to status of pet. 

"And, yes Chris. This is that guy. Except he's not that guy any more. Are you, Gregory?"

"No, sir," House answered. It was true, he wasn't.

Tritter looked around. "Is the food ready? I'm starving."

A dark haired man who hadn't spoken yet answered. "Yes, I made some pizza. I'll go and get it."

The men moved to the dining table. Tritter slapped his thigh and pulled on the leash. "Heel, Greg." 

Gritting his teeth he followed Tritter on hands and knees to the table. Tritter tied one end of the leash loosely to a table leg and left him there, on hands and knees while the men sat. A large dog joined him, sitting on the other side of the dark haired man, wary eyes on House. Of course the dog wasn't tied to anything.

The pizza was brought out and the men ate it, talking about the usual things - sports, politics, and the upcoming presidential election. All things that House might have been interested in if he was still free. Of course he couldn't vote now - he wasn't a citizen, and had no rights - civic or otherwise. He'd completely lost track of the sports he used to follow and knew virtually nothing about current affairs. The concerns of free men were a distant memory, all his energy had gone into survival since he'd been enslaved. 

The pizza smelled great and he wondered if Tritter intended to feed him scraps from the table or just ignore him. Unfortunately ignoring him was too much to hope for.

"Oh, Greg. I guess you're hungry. Let me get you something." Tritter said, adopting a mock 'concerned' voice. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a dog bowl which he placed by his side. He filled it with a packet of slave chow.

"There you go, boy. Eat it all up. No hands remember."

"Linc, maybe you'd better feed Kirk as well." Tritter suggested, looking at the dog. "Wouldn't want him to feel left out." The dark haired man grinned. He fetched another dog bowl and filled it with dog food, placing it besides House's. A bowl of water was also put down.

House looked from his bowl to the dog's bowl. The food looked almost exactly the same. The dog growled at him threateningly and he looked away. He bent his head to his bowl, trying to force the food down - knowing that if he didn't things would only get worse. When the men's attention was averted he lifted his head up and let the dog at his bowl. Tritter caught him at it.

"Oh, looks like Kirk had some of your delicious food, Gregory. Maybe you'd better drink some water then."

The dog had been using the water bowl but House forced himself to take a couple of small laps of it. 

"Good boy, now lick your bowl clean - or I'll get another bowl of it for you."

He did so, to the laughter of the four men.

"Was it good, boy?" Chris asked, clearly enjoying this new game.

"Yes, sir."

The men laughed. 

"The collar around his neck suits him, Mike. Look at him eating from a dog bowl just like Kirk."

Like it was his choice to eat like this and they weren't forcing him. Fuck this. 

Something must have shown on his face because Tritter reached down and tilted his head up.

"Looks like the slave wants to say something. Go on, Greg, say something with that smart mouth of yours. I'm sure we want to hear it."

House kept his mouth shut. 

"I think maybe he's still hungry," Dave said. "He gave some of his to Kirk after all."

Tritter nodded and poured some more chow into the bowl. 

House stared at it. He'd already had dinner with Wilson and one fucking bowl of chow, he couldn't eat any more.

"Oh, don't look at me like that." Tritter said. "I am just taking care of you, after all you're the doctor, you know all animals need a good diet. I wouldn't want to get in trouble with the animal rights groups." 

They all laughed and House's temper broke. He was fucking sick of this. 

"Yeah, you're taking care of me. Just like I took care of you by shoving a rectal thermometer up your ass and leaving you in an exam room. How long did you leave it in, Tritter? Did it feel good? Maybe you fucked yourself with it." He said recklessly.

The men laughed again, this time at Tritter, and Tritter's face grew red with anger and embarrassment. 

"Damn, Mike you didn't tell us that part." Dave said, slapping him on the back. "A rectal thermometer? No wonder you didn't mention it. I guess you can get your revenge tonight anyway."

"I had him in a kennel last week, dildo up his ass all night. That shut him up. Nothing to what I'm going to do to him tonight, though." Tritter pulled harshly on the leash, jerking House's head up. 

"Let's have a bit of fun while we watch the game, boy." He stood up and tugged him away from the table. House shuddered internally, but at least the order to eat the slave chow appeared to have been forgotten. He certainly wasn't going to remind them.

The men settled in the living room in front of a large screen television. The TV was turned on and a baseball game appeared on the screen. House was placed on his knees in the middle of the room, back to the screen so he couldn't watch.

"Time to feed the slave some dessert." Tritter sat back and opened his fly, taking out his cock. "Crawl over here, boy." The other men lounged around, one eye on Tritter and his slave, the other on the game.

House looked at the door but there was no escape. Nobody was going to come and save him. 

"Remember, slave - you don't do what you're told I go to the SAC and they'll take you away from that pansy Wilson - I might even see if I can buy you myself. So get over here, now!" His voice cracked like a whip on the last word and House found himself responding to the command.

He knelt in front of Tritter's groin.

"Open up, Greggie. Make it good."

House closed his eyes and opened his mouth wide. 

His face was slapped, hard. 

"Open your eyes. I want you to watch me while you're doing this."

His cheek still stinging he opened his eyes and Tritter grinned at him, thrusting his cock into House's open mouth. 

The temptation was strong to bite the damn thing off but instead he mechanically began to lick and suck at it as he'd been taught. He'd done this so many times over the last three years that he could almost do it in his sleep now. He stayed as detached as possible until Tritter began to fuck his face.

Tritter was every bit as rough as he expected, and he was struggling for breath as the cock thrust in and out of his mouth. When he felt Tritter begin to come he tried to pull off but Tritter grabbed his head and held him firmly in place.

"You swallow every drop, boy. Linc doesn't want a mess on his floor."

He swallowed the foul liquid down as quickly as possible and at last the cock was removed from his mouth and Tritter let go of his head. House could feel a trickle of semen running down his chin.

"Come on boy, you just had a nice dessert, what do you say?"

He swallowed hard. He could do this. "Thank you, sir." His voice was hoarse and Tritter laughed and patted him on the head.

"Good boy." He looked at his friends. "Okay, who wants the next turn?"

They used his mouth in turn. As each one used him the others watched the game, chatting normally amongst themselves. He wasn't a person to them - just a convenient hole to stick a cock into. His stomach was churning and his jaw aching when finally the last of them came in his mouth and pushed him away.

Tritter called him over and he crawled over there, desperately hoping the man wasn't ready to go again. His leg was sending pulses of agony up to his brain and he could barely move. Tritter stared at him, a fake expression of concern on his face.

"What's wrong Greg?" he asked, his voice gentle. 

"Nothing sir, I am fine." House wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much pain he'd caused him.

"Is it your leg? Are you in pain?" Tritter asked sounding truthfully worried. His friends stared at him in surprise, their attention diverted from the television.

"I am always in pain, sir." That much was true. Tritter hadn't given a damn about his pain when they first met. Indeed he'd deliberately tripped him even though House was walking with a cane - something that had revealed to House just what sort of man this was.

"But it's worse now, right? That might be because of the kneeling position. You need to stretch your legs. Stand up, Greg," said Tritter with a soft voice.

House stood up quickly; glad to get back on his feet, whatever game Tritter was playing.

Tritter stood up and handed over House's cane. "Here, walk and stretch your leg, Greg." 

"Thank you, sir." House began to limp around the room, trying to settle his leg down. He wondered what Tritter was up to but he'd take any opportunity to try and get his pain under control again. He could hear the men talking on the other side of the room.

"What the fuck, Mike? Aren't we going for round two?" 

"All in good time. Wait 'till the game's over."

Five minutes later the last out was made and Tritter stood up, his cronies doing the same. House was still limping around.

"Let's go outside to smoke. Hope you have some of the good stuff, Dave." Tritter said, gesturing. 

Dave patted his pocket. "Of course."

Tritter eyed House. "Now, Greg. I don't think you're stretching out enough there. Let me help you."

"I don't need any help, sir," House said. 

"Oh, I think you do. Strip off. We're going to get you some nice fresh air."

"What?" House glanced outside - it was dark, and cold. Walking around naked out there was not going to be fun. "Please, sir. Not with my..."

"Shut your mouth, and get your clothes off, or I'll cut them off," Tritter said coldly. 

With no other choice House did as he was told until he was standing stark naked in front of the five men. He moved his hands in front of his genitals.

"No touching the merchandise, boy. Cross your hands behind your head. We want a good view of your little friend. I wonder if it's the same size as Kirk's." 

The men giggled like teenagers as House complied. His cock hung limply between his legs and he felt horribly exposed. 

"What the fuck is up with his leg?" Dave asked, staring at the crater in House's leg. 

"Yeah, ugly as fuck isn't it?" Tritter reached out and prodded the scar with his fingers and House flinched away. 

Tritter slapped him on the ass. "Okay, boy, I can see you're eager to get outside. Off you go, we'll be right behind you. Keep those hands behind your head." They all giggled again as they followed him.

It was cold out in the yard; House was shaking within seconds - both from fear and the cold. 

"Are you cold, boy?"

There was no right answer to that so House kept quiet. It didn't help.

"Well, by the look of that shrivelled up dick of yours you are. Let's warm you up a little."

Tritter slapped him on the ass again - a hard, stinging slap. "Run round the yard, two laps in thirty seconds. Do it in less and you'll get a little treat."

House stared at him. Did Tritter really think he was up to running around? He could barely manage the walk out here.

"I can't run. I can't even walk without my cane. Just must be kidding."

"Of course you can, the cane is just an aid for you to walk more easily and have less pain. I didn't say it wasn't going to hurt. I really don't give a damn if it hurts - in fact it's a bonus. Now, you can do three laps for talking back to me. Three laps in thirty seconds or you'll do it again. You can take your hands down, but keep them away from your dick."

Again there wasn't any choice. House lurched off, trying to go as quickly as he could. Each step made his leg scream at him - he doubted he'd be able to walk tomorrow. How was he going to hide this from Wilson? The men smoked their weed and yelled encouragement at him, in between bouts of laughter at the sight of him limping naked around the garden.

When he finished the third lap he fell to his knees in front of them. He was sweating, and breathing heavily as if he had run a marathon. He knelt there, naked and miserable, trying to catch his breath, while the five men inhaled his pain as if it was the only drug they needed to survive.

"Well done, boy, that was twenty eight seconds. Now I am going to tell you what your prize is." Tritter leant in close, his foul breath on House's ear. We're all going to fuck your tight little asshole, once each. “And you're going to love it, you little slave slut. And just wait, I've got an even better present for you."

He stepped back. "Now, up on all fours again my little pet." When House had raised himself to that position Tritter swung the cane he still carried - House's cane - against House's naked ass. "Off you go boy, back into the house. Wouldn't want you to get cold out here."

House crawled back into the house and was directed to wait on all fours in the middle of the living room floor again. 

Tritter told him to stay and the men had a whispered consultation. When they approached House again Tritter was holding something in his hand.

"This is to stop you getting all excited while we're fucking you and making a mess on the carpet." Tritter explained. 

House knew what it was - a chastity cage. It would lock around his genitals, removing any pretence that he was a person, an equal partner in the sexual act. He was just a convenient hole for them to fuck. 

Tritter reached underneath him and roughly took hold of his cock and balls, shoving them into the cage and locking it with a small padlock. A single band went around his waist, holding the device on him, and another padlock held the band in place. His genitals were now squashed uncomfortably into the cage - almost neutering him. Tritter gave the device a slap and House tried to shy away from the resultant pain. Another slap came ringing down on his buttocks. 

“Hold still or I’ll find a smaller cage. Or cut something off so you won’t need one.” House steadied and Tritter laughed, patting him on the head and standing back up after another hearty slap.

"There now, the slave’s all ready for fucking. Who's first?" 

They all had a turn. They thrust into him roughly from behind, paying little attention to how much pain they were causing him. They used lube at least; otherwise House doubted he would have survived it. The worst thing was that his body tried to respond to what they were doing, his cock filled and pressed against the bars of the cage. There could be no release for him even as each man in turn reached a climax. In a way not reaching a climax himself was good - because whenever he'd been fucked as a slave and had come he'd felt that his own body had betrayed him, that it had said that this wasn't too bad, that this was what he wanted. At least the cage prevented his body from betraying him totally. On the other hand the engorged cock caused its own pain. 

Tritter went last, taking a perverse pleasure in drawing it out as long as possible. His goal wasn't only his own release but House's total humiliation and subjugation.

"Say it boy, come on, tell me how much you want it," he growled, punctuating his words with thrusts, his fingers digging into the skin around House's ass. His cock was large and it filled House to capacity, stretching him even further than the others had.

"Please sir, fuck me harder." House begged, just wanting it to be over. After each man had climaxed Tritter had made him thank them and ask for more. 

One last thrust and Tritter came into him, long and hard. He stayed leaning against House's back for a couple of minutes until he yanked himself out, causing House to start shaking in reaction. His body was covered in sweat, his short hair shiny with it.

"There, good boy, you were a good little fuck toy," Tritter said, one hand stroking his flank as you might stroke a dog, or a horse. "I could see you were enjoying that."

He reached around and removed the cage. Now that the immediate physical stimulation was gone House's erection also vanished. All he wanted was to curl into a ball on the ground and go to sleep; instead he saw a pile of clothes dropped by his head. His clothes. It was strange to see them now. 

"Put your clothes on and then go and wash your face in the sink. Then I'll get you home to pansy boy before he wets himself worrying about you."

House didn't think he'd be able to move but he did. The incentive of getting out of there was enough. He put the clothes on and did a quick wash of his face under the faucet. He doubted that he looked anything other than what he was - a well fucked slave - but he was beyond caring. Tritter made him say goodbye to each man and thank them personally - by kissing their feet - and then he was led back on his leash to the car.

The bravado he had shown when Tritter had driven him here was gone. Now he stared numbly out the window. When Tritter pulled up at the kerb he gave him his parting instructions.

"Go back to Wilson, don't say anything about this. Then next Thursday at the same time we'll do this again. Don't be late."

When Tritter drove off House stared after him for a while and then turned for home. Head down he put one foot ahead of the other and made it there, one step at a time.


	15. Chapter 15

House didn't sleep that night. He lay awake, eyes open and looking into an endless hell of pain. Between the kneeling, the running around the garden and the hard fucking by the five men his body was wracked with agony. His leg was aflame. The two Vicodins Wilson had given him when he returned barely touched it. He almost welcomed the pain, it took his mind away from dwelling on what had happened to him, last night and ever since he had become a slave.

Sometimes he felt like he was still himself - still Greg House, asshole genius doctor. Sometimes like tonight, he felt like he really _was_ nothing more than a slave, not even human. Tritter had shown him that the second was the reality. He'd crawled, he'd eaten food from a bowl on the ground, and shared water with a dog. He'd opened wide, mouth and ass, for five men he would have called morons in his past life. And he'd thanked them, he'd thanked them for what they had done to him. A human being wouldn't have allowed that to happen to himself.

His tears stained the pillow on the narrow bed and he shivered and trembled his way through the night.

* * *

"House, why aren't you up?"

Wilson was staring at him with concern. House had gotten up earlier than he had every day since he'd started work at the hospital, He had to clean the apartment so that any inspection by the SAC would find it spotless - full time work at the hospital was no excuse for a slave to let his standards slip.

He stared back, finally croaking out a response. "Sick." His throat was raw and inflamed from the fucking the men had given it.

Wilson came over and felt his forehead. "No temperature."

House just looked away. Wilson could believe him or not. He couldn't move anyway, let alone walk.

"House, I know things at the hospital aren't what you'd like. But you can't stay here."

"You can chain me up, I can't go in."

"No. Come on, get up and have a shower, you'll feel better."

"I can't. Please, Wilson. Please. Chain me. Leave me here."

"House. Is something wrong? Is this to do with whatever happened to you last night? Please talk to me, tell me." Wilson came forward and sat on the side of the bed. House shrank away from him. He needed Wilson to leave. The longer he stayed the more suspicious he would get. House couldn't hide this level of pain for long. He gathered up what little energy he had for an angry outburst, hoping desperately that Wilson would buy it. 

"For fuck's sake! There's nothing's wrong. I'm just sick and my fucking leg hurts. Even slaves can get sick. When I was at Rent-a-Slave I had to work, no matter how sick I was. I thought it would be different with you. I guess I can drag myself in if that's what you want, _Master_." 

Wilson flushed, as he always did when House reminded him of his status. House knew how much he hated 'owning' him. "Of course you don't have to work if you're too sick. But if I leave you here I have to chain you to the bed. I don't want to do that, House. "

"Just do it. Please."

"If the SAC comes..."

"They'll find a chained slave." They couldn't hurt him worse than he was already hurt, House thought. "Please, Wilson. Please." He turned his head to one side, where Wilson's hand was resting on the bed. He gently touched it with his lips. A gesture of supplication he'd been taught as a slave. Then he closed his eyes and waited.

Wilson talked some more but House couldn't hear him over the pain. Then he felt his wrist being lifted and a cuff placed over it. A tug on the wrist and he was chained to the bed by his right wrist. The chain was pulled so that there was little slack - couldn't have a slave choking himself with the chain. House opened his eyes again to see Wilson standing over him, his face filled with grief.

"What about the bathroom... " Wilson said, waving vaguely at the door.

"Leave a bottle. And some chow, and a bowl of water by the side of the bed. Don't want you to be accused of neglect." House laughed hollowly.

"Is this to do with where you went last night? You were gone for hours." When House had been dumped by Tritter on the street he'd taken over an hour to drag himself back to Wilson's apartment. Wilson had been on him as soon as he walked in the door but House had refused to answer his questions and had gone straight to bed - his clothes hiding the evidence of abuse his body bore.

"Wilson, leave it. You can't do anything. You can't change what has to be. Just go to work and just... just don't ask."

 

After setting up water and food Wilson gave him another double dose of Vicodin. House accepted the pills gratefully and turned his head away from his friends questioning eyes. 

Finally Wilson left. House had nothing to do but lie on the bed like a trapped animal. He stared at the ceiling and held himself still and waited for the painkillers to kick in.

* * *

Wilson was looking at some files but not really reading any of them. He was so angry at House's situation. He couldn't stop thinking about him, and about how both their lives were going to be for the next five years. He was afraid.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. The three former fellows were standing in the doorway. Their faces held various expressions of worry. He sighed internally. House again, more problems.

"What's up?" he asked casually, trying to look like he'd actually been working.

"Do you know where House is?" Chase asked, his Australian accent broader than normal. "We need a consult with him. This kid is getting worse."

"He didn't come in; he wasn't feeling well."

"So he can stay at your place when you're not there?" Cameron asked. "Then why are you bringing him here every day when he's being..." Chase grabbed her arm and shook his head at her.

"Do you think I bring House in so people can treat him like crap all day because I enjoy seeing that? Do you think I don't know what the manual labour does to his leg? That I don't know how much of a hell his life is?" Wilson asked, his voice rising. "Do you think I _like_ this? For your information he can't just 'stay at home'. I have to chain him to the bed for the day. For one year the SAC can just barge into my home whenever they want. They inspect us to make sure that House is being treated like a miserable, piece of shit, slave. They've been twice already since I brought him home. If they come today God knows what they will do to him. If they came and found that he hadn't been restrained they'd take him away again."

He ran a hand through his hair, aware that his voice had risen until he had been almost shouting at them. They all looked alarmed at his outburst. 

"Cameron didn't mean to criticize you, Wilson. We know you're doing the best you can for him. We really do need to speak to him though. All these cases that Cuddy had us take on so House would have something to work on... well, we don't have time to wait for him to come back in." Foreman shot a glance at the other two that Wilson couldn't interpret. 

Wilson had an idea - he was worried about how House had looked when he left him. He could get the fellows to go check on him. He himself was tied up at the hospital all day.

"Look, I'm sorry to dump on you like that. None of this is your fault," he said to them, getting himself back under control. "Here are the keys to my apartment. The key to his chains is on the living room table. I couldn't leave it with him in case the SAC came. Can you go and get him something to eat? I was going to go home for lunch but I have a patient coming in. Just try and treat him as normally as possible."

Foreman took the keys with a nod but Cameron shook her head. "I don't want to see him like that - and he wouldn't want me to. I'll stay with the patient."

Wilson watched them go with a sigh. He hoped House would forgive him for sending them but he needed some allies in this. It was too much for him to carry by himself. Foreman and Chase would have their back - he was sure of that.

* * *

They paused at the door to Wilson's apartment, reluctant to go any further. They looked at each other uneasily until Foreman sighed.

"Come on, we just have to treat him like the bastard he always was. And he can treat us like crap same as usual." Foreman tried to sound casual, but they both knew that things were different now.

They let themselves in and went to the guest bedroom. House seemed to be asleep. One hand was raised by his head and they could see a chain connecting his wrist to the corner of the bed. In the corner of the room was a steel cage - one which looked far too small for a man of House's size. There were bars on the bedroom windows and the place was as stark and bare as a prison cell. Foreman felt a momentary flare of anger at Wilson leaving House like this, but then remembered that he had no choice. He recalled what Wilson had said about the visits by the SAC. No doubt they'd forced Wilson to keep House in such a bare, depressing room.

He entered the room and went over to the bed. He shook House's arm gently and after a few seconds House's eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly, his breathing accelerated. He moved awkwardly, finding himself brought up short by the chain around his wrist. There was pure fear in his eyes.

Foreman was shaken by his reaction, and shared a glance with Chase. If there was one thing about the old House, he had never been scared of anything - let alone his employees.

Suddenly House seemed to come back to himself, his gaze focusing on Foreman.

"Morons!" he said, but it was strained. Foreman thought he was trying too hard to be normal.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. We just need a consult." He stepped back from the bed, giving House room.  
"Black man and a wombat breaking into my place and waking me up - yeah, I can't see how I could possibly find that scary."

Foreman stamped down his automatic anger at House. _He's trying to put on a brave face_ , he reminded himself, _and he's the one chained to a fucking bed_.

He put the key to House's chains by his bed. "Here's the key. Get yourself ready and come eat. We brought lunch." Chase seemed to be about to protest but Foreman shook his head slightly. The least they could do was give House the dignity of getting himself up and ready in private. He didn't need them gawking at him.

Once they had left the room House unlocked the chains, shaking his arm out where it had become numb. He was grateful that they had left him alone, and even more so when he stood up on shaky legs. His body still felt split apart. He had some Vicodin hidden in the bathroom and he took an extra on top of his normal dose. He splashed some water on his face, and brushed his teeth and felt a little more human - but not ready to socialise with his former fellows. What the hell had Wilson been playing at, sending them here?

"We got Chinese, can you grab some plates?" Chase said, already seated at the table with Foreman.

House glanced at the clock - it was three in the afternoon. Foreman and Chase were obviously making an effort not to emphasize House's current status by pretending that it was a working lunch, like they had often had around the diagnostic conference table in the old days.

"Yeah, as if you hadn't already eaten at the hospital - it's three o'clock. Morons! Did Wilson tell you to come and have a little tea party with me?" House nevertheless grabbed the plates and some forks. Slamming them down on the table he sat down himself and pulled the folder of scans towards him.

While he shoveled the food into his mouth with one hand he rifled through the scans with the other. Then he started shooting questions at them, forgetting his pain for a little while as they went through the DDX. By the time he was finished with lunch the fellows had a new diagnosis. House was sure this was the correct one - a common measles virus that the patient couldn't fight off, transmitted due to the unprotected immune system of his biological mother.

Foreman and Chase both shook their heads. They hadn't seen the answer, and House, who'd been through hell in the last two years and spent the morning chained to a bed had made his diagnosis without ever seeing the patient.

They helped House clean up - apparently everything had to be immaculate in the apartment in case of a sudden inspection by the SAC - and then reluctantly chained him to his bed again.

"Go away, and stop looking at me like I'm some helpless puppy," House said as they lingered. "I'm sure your patient is in worse shape than I am. Put the key back where you found it and lock the front door behind you. I'll see you tomorrow at the hospital. Have a good case ready so I don't have to spend all day mopping the fucking floors."

Once they were gone House relaxed back onto the bed. He was still sore, but now he felt less like a wretched slave, and more like Gregory House - world famous diagnostician. They had taken a lot of things from him, almost everything he had, but they hadn't taken his gift. They couldn't take that.

* * *

Wilson watched out for Chase and Foreman to return and called them into his office as soon as he saw them.

"How was he?"

"Diagnosed the patient," Foreman said. "We're running tests now but I wouldn't bet against him. Sometimes you just know when he's right."

"But how did he seem? He was in a lot of pain when I left this morning."

Foreman shrugged. "I'd say he was still in a lot of pain. He ate some lunch though and he seemed a bit more relaxed when we left."

"I guess it's been hard for him to adjust to being back here like this," Chase said with a shrug. "Can't be easy for him."

Wilson looked at him sharply. "Have you heard something? How is he being treated by the staff?"

"A lot of people weren't here three years ago To them he's just another slave. So they do what people normally do with slaves - ignore them, or put them to work. Some people who were here don't care, and a few feel sorry for him. But, you know House - he pissed off a lot of people when he worked here. Some of them have been hassling him. Calling him names, walking over the floor he's just cleaned, stupid crap like that."

"Nothing worse than that?" Wilson couldn't do much about petty harassment, and it wouldn't look good for him to try, but if it escalated he could intervene as House's 'owner'. Legally he didn't have to put up with people abusing him. It would be better if he didn't have to take legal action. But he suspected that House had met up with someone from the hospital last night who had beaten him where the marks didn't show. _Why_ he'd met up with them was a different matter.

Foreman and Chase glanced at each other and then Foreman shook his head. "No, not that I know about anyway."

"You'll look out for him?"

Chase looked insulted. "Of course. He might be a bastard but he's _our_ bastard, you know?"

"We'll keep an eye out Wilson, but we can't be trailing him around the hospital 24/7," Foreman added. "Hopefully he'll tell you if he runs into something he can't handle." 

Yeah, and pigs fly, Wilson muttered to himself when they had gone. House was a stubborn ass before he disappeared, and he was just as stubborn now. Luckily Wilson had plans to try and help House when he wouldn't help himself. 

He pulled out his phone and started up the app he had downloaded that morning. House's collar had a GPS chip embedded in it, for obvious reasons. Wilson had been informed that he could track it with an app but he'd never bothered downloading it and initialising it. This morning while he was checking on House his phone had synced with the collar. Now when he pulled it up he could see House's location on the map. Currently he was right where he was supposed to be - in Wilson's apartment. If he tried to pull a disappearing trick again Wilson would be tracking him. He'd know exactly where he was going. 

The second part of his plan would be implemented tomorrow. 

* * *

The next day House was back at work, dressed in his slave coveralls and mopping the floor in the ICU when he heard the familiar clack of high heels walking over the ceramic floor. She always walked that way - as if she was on a mission that couldn't wait. He bowed his head tiredly. He did not want to deal with Cuddy at the moment. 

"House, I need to talk with you. Can you come to my office?"  
"Working," he answered shortly. He pushed the mop around the already clean floor in demonstration. 

"Please, House. We'll get lunch. I've already bought you a reuben, no pickles! I'm sure the floor can wait. It looks spotless anyway." 

He didn't like Cuddy seeing him like this. Wearing these ridiculous bright orange coveralls with the word 'slave' emblazoned on the back. Scrubbing the floors of the hospital while his friends and former colleagues continued on with their professional work. He couldn't stop feeling shame at what had happened to him. He wasn't even considered a person anymore, he was property - _Wilson's_ property, and he had the tag on his collar to prove it. 

Although Cuddy had phrased her request like a question he couldn't refuse her - and he didn't want to be put in the position of being ordered to go with her. He could at least keep up the pretence of having some free will. 

"Okay," he said. "I'll come. Just don't tell Wilson I'm standing him up for you. He might get jealous." 

With his head bowed he followed her to her office, walking just behind her. All the time he was conscious of the stares of the people they passed in the corridors. He heard a pair of nurses giggling as he was led past them. It wasn't doing Cuddy any good to be seen like this with him. There'd been rumours about them back when he was was a doctor here. Heaven's knows what the hospital's gossip mill was making of his reappearance as a slave. 

Once inside her office he sat uninvited on one of the chairs in front of her desk. She cleared a space on her always crowded desk and produced the reuben for him and a salad for herself. Once she started eating he took a bite of the reuben. It was good - very good. His life was still difficult, but at least the food had improved since Wilson bought him. He'd dreamed of these reubens after two years of eating nothing but slave chow for every meal. 

After they'd been eating for a couple of minutes she sighed and put down her fork. She'd barely been playing with her food and he waited for her to say whatever was weighing on her mind. He had known the food would come at a price. 

"House, this is difficult so I'm going to get straight to the point. You need to tell me the truth." 

"No, I am _not_ a woman," he said, his mouth full of sandwich. 

She barely cracked a smile at his joke. "House, I need to know if you're being abused." There was a small quiver in her voice. 

He stared back at her. "I'm a slave. I can't be abused. I can be used, which is legally fine." He talked flatly, his face wiped of expression, his voice a monotone. 

"Bullshit, House!" She stood up, leaning one balled up fist on some papers on her desk. "This is not the Slave Administration Centre. Don't talk like that. You don't believe that and neither do I. If someone is hurting you tell me who it is and I'll stop it." 

He threw the remains of his reuben down on the desk and struggled to his feet. "Why does it matter, Cuddy? I'm just like that table there - a piece of property. It doesn't matter what happens to me. You need to get that through that delusional head of yours. You can't do anything to change what I am." 

"House, please don't do this. Don't withdraw like this. You need to talk to me. I can help you." She grabbed his arm as he tried to walk away, pulling him slightly off balance. 

"Why do you care, Cuddy? You kicked me out of here. What do you care about a fucking slave?" She had everything. What did one slave matter to a woman like her? 

"Are you serious, House?" She yelled at him. "Why do I _care_? I care because I have known you for more than twenty years. I care because you're my friend not a fucking slave. You don't deserve this, House. You don't deserve for people to treat you like a piece of furniture or a... or a... sextoy, House." She stepped close to him, one hand caressing his cheek gently, tears in her eyes. 

"Don't..." he whispered. "Don't touch me like that." 

"It's my fault. All of this. You left because I said that the Board were going to fire you. If I'd backed you up more you wouldn't be..." 

She was crying now and he had to swallow a lump in his own throat. 

He brushed a hand across her face, wiping away a tear. 

"Cuddy, none of this is your fault. What I did that day, the way that I lost it... that was all me. Running away was all me. There was nothing you could have done. Everything I did after leaving here, none of that was your fault. I did this, Cuddy. I screwed up." 

He stepped back, away from her. He couldn't stay here. 

"I have to get back to work." 

He turned his back and walked out of her office, leaving a sad and confused Dean of Medicine behind him. 

* * *

After House had gone Cuddy picked up the phone and reported her failure to Wilson. It wasn't as if they had expected anything else but conspiring to help House was an old habit for them and Cuddy had been glad to try. Wilson had shared his concern that someone from the hospital had lured House out at night - to do God knows what to him. Wilson had reported that he'd been barely able to move the next day and she had seen for herself how gingerly he was moving even today. 

Well, she wasn't going to tolerate that sort of thing happening in her hospital. As Dean of the hospital she'd had to deal with slaves before of course. The slave cells in the lobby had been a distasteful but necessary device to cut down on the mistreatment of slaves belonging to staff and visitors. The slaves who actually worked in the hospital - mostly in the janitorial department - were usually kept busy enough that the staff didn't have time to make use of them. She was sure it still happened occasionally but not enough for her to officially take notice of it. 

What had apparently happened with House was in a different category altogether. She didn't know who it was, or what threat they had used with House to get him to comply, but she was going to make every effort to find out. And if House wouldn't tell her she'd have to try other means. 

She made a note to take Brenda Pavin to lunch. She and House had battled over House's clinic duty many times in the old days but she also knew that Brenda had her ear to the ground when it came to hospital gossip. If there was anything to know, she'd know it. And if she didn't she'd find it out. 

She picked up House's discarded reuben and threw what remained of it in the trash. She should have waited until he was finished before asking him about the abuse. She was sure that Wilson was doing his best but House was still too thin, his features drawn and haggard. He looked like he'd aged twenty years in the time he'd been missing. 


	16. Chapter 16

Wilson was saddened but not surprised when House declared he wanted to go out 'for a walk' the next Thursday night at the same time as the previous week. He tried to talk him out of it again but of course House remained obstinate and Wilson watched as his friend left the apartment and made his way down the street.

Neither he nor Cuddy had been able to find out what was happening with House. But this week he was ready. He used his phone app to track the GPS device in House's collar. House left the apartment and walked a couple of blocks before stopping for a minute or so. Then he made much quicker progress - suggesting that he'd been picked up by somebody in a car. The car drove for several miles before stopping. The tracking device showed House entering a building - possibly someone's house.

Wilson drove the same route. Eventually he pulled up outside a suburban house in a quiet street. He parked the car and surveyed the property on foot. There was no-one in sight but there was a closed garage and the signal from House's collar was still coming through strongly. House was in this unassuming building. Wilson still had no clue what could have compelled him to go voluntarily but he was going to find out.

He was debating what to do next when he heard some voices coming from the rear of the house. His heart pounding, he crept up past the side of the house and looked over the gate.

He nearly called out when he saw House. He was naked, except for a wicked looking contraption around his balls and cock, and he was running - running! - around the yard, while a group of five men yelled encouragement at him. One of the men had a crop and was swiping at House's ass as he ran - presumably to encourage the crippled man to go even faster. All the men howled with laughter when House flinched as the blow landed on his naked flesh.

The man with the crop appeared familiar from the back and when the man turned his head Wilson recognised him.

Michael Tritter - House's old nemesis from a lifetime ago. So, nobody from the hospital after all - but someone else with a proven vendetta against House. Tritter would extract every bit of revenge he could from the helpless slave.

Wilson watched from the darkness, sickened, as the men laughed at the clearly struggling slave. When House finally collapsed to the ground, unable to go any further, Tritter poured the remains of a can of beer over him. Two of the other men then picked him up and slung him between them like a sack of potatoes. They took him over to a rough wooden table in the centre of the yard and dumped him over it so that his feet were on the ground and his ass at the edge of the table. Tritter walked behind him and opened his fly - pulling out his thickened cock.

Wilson turned away in distress. He didn't want to watch this. He didn't want to share in his friend's humiliation. He could still hear the crude tones of the men as they laughed at what Tritter was doing.

He considered his options quickly - he could call the police to reinforce his rights as House's 'owner'. But with Tritter possibly still on the police force, and with a cloud of suspicion already hanging over their whole situation at the SAC it was a bad idea to bring attention to themselves. The alternative was to try and save House himself. House was tagged to Wilson after all - no-one should be 'using' him like this. It was well within Wilson's rights to intervene.

He heard a muffled sound of pain and looked back. Tritter was pounding into House. Wilson saw red - the time for deliberation was over. He couldn't allow this to happen to House. He yelled out at the men as he opened the gate and ran through to the yard.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing to my slave?" He launched himself at Tritter who pulled out of his victim and swung on Wilson with a roundhouse punch which he easily dodged. Wilson punched him on the jaw and then as Tritter was falling he kneed him in the groin. The man's dick was still hanging out of his pants and he doubled over in agony at the blow.

Tritter's friends were starting to advance on Wilson and Wilson held out a hand.

"I've called the police. That is my slave, my tagged slave that you have there. None of you have a right to touch him. I'll press charges, and I'll sue you for thousands in damages." House might not be entitled to protection as a human being, but the law saw him as valuable property.

House was still lying over the table, unmoving and Wilson looked at him coldly. "Crawl over there and put your clothes back on, slave. You'll be paying for this for a long time."

It nearly broke his heart to see his old friend crawling across the muddy ground to retrieve his clothes but he had to keep the act up. He had to convince these men that he was as sick a bastard as all of them. He turned his back on House and rounded on Tritter.

"After everything that House has ever done to me, Tritter, this is my chance to get my revenge on him. You are not screwing that up for me. You fuck with him again and I'll bust this little circle of yours wide open. "

"He'll be taken off you," Tritter was still doubled over on the ground, his breath coming in short pants. "He'll be sold."

"No, he won't. There's no law against buying people you used to know, as long as you use them as they're supposed to be used. I can prove that I do. There _is_ a law against using other people's property though. You're a policeman, I'm sure you know that."

He turned away and looked at House who had dressed himself and come to kneel by Wilson.

"Get up and go out to my car, harness yourself up and put your hood on. Your ass is mine tonight, once I clean Tritter's filth out of it."

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master." House was staring at the ground, his body visibly trembling.

"You fucking well will be sorry when I'm finished with you. Get out of here." Wilson kicked out at him, connecting lightly with House's good leg, and House staggered to his feet and limped off, struggling without his cane.

"Remember, Tritter, and all of you fuckwits - don't come near him again. I have video of your vandalism of my property." He waved his phone in their direction. He hadn't taken any video, and if he had he'd never make it public, but they didn't know that.

"Nice act," Tritter sneered, finally getting to his feet. "But you don't fool me."

Wilson shrugged. "Then touch him again and we'll see what happens. In the meantime don't go to any doctors - I have a lot of friends in the medical profession. I'll put the word out. Next time, you'll find more than a thermometer up your sorry ass."

He stormed off, his heart pounding. When he reached the car he looked back but there was no sign of anyone following and he breathed a sigh of relief and quickly opened the door on the driver's side. House was already in the back of the car, his harness on and a hood covering his face. Wilson was glad; he didn't want to see how House looked at that moment.

He drove off; keeping a wary eye on his mirrors but the road behind them was empty. He only relaxed slightly once they'd be driving for five minutes.

"It's going to be okay, House." He said to the quiet figure in the back of the car. There was no reply, he hadn't expected one but he still longed to hear some sort of sarcastic rejoinder. There was nothing. "Everything is going to be okay, you're safe now" he repeated. He wished he believed it.

The remainder of the drive passed silently. When they got to the apartment Wilson opened the rear car door and released House from the harness and then helped him out of the car. He removed the hood and House immediately averted his eyes, staring at the ground instead of looking at his friend and owner. Wilson sighed, clipped the leash onto House's collar, and led him inside.

As soon as they were inside House dropped to a kneeling position, his head bowed.

"House? What are you doing? Get up." Having House kneel at his feet made Wilson uncomfortable, especially after what he'd just seen.

House quickly stood up, clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head. Wilson had often, in his old life, wanted to see House this quiet and submissive, and willing to listen. But now he desperately wanted the old House - the one who wouldn't listen to him and didn't take any crap from anyone - back. He hated seeing him like this. He didn't know this slavish stranger.

"When did you meet Tritter?" He asked at last. He was angry with House for keeping this from him - if he'd have known maybe he would have been able to prevent what happened tonight - but he also knew that House was very vulnerable in this state. He had to tread carefully if he didn't want to cause more damage.

"At the police station, when I was there overnight." House answered in a small, hesitant voice.

Wilson flashed back to the morning when he'd picked him up. House When had come home bruised and scared. "He abused you." It wasn't a question.

House looked up, despair in his eyes. "It's not abuse if you're a slave." His voice was sad, and bitter.

"What he did to you, then and tonight, it isn't right." Wilson said.

"It's only 'not right' because I belong to you, not to him. You could do the same, or worse, than Tritter did and nothing would happen to you." House's voice was flat, emotionless. He still stood with his hands behind his back. "Nobody would think you had done anything wrong."

"Nobody has the right to abuse you." Wilson knew it was a lie. People did - he did. Nobody cared about the welfare of a slave. House had no illusions.

"If he approaches you again, if any of them bother you, you let me know. Understood? I will handle it. You can't deal with this on your own. Not now." He spoke firmly, trying to get through to House.

"Yes, Master." House responded flatly, bowing his head.

"House!" Wilson strode over to him, grasping his arm, only to feel House flinch at his touch. He hastily dropped his hand. "Sorry. Just don't call me that, ever."

"As you say, Master. May I go and get cleaned up?"

Wilson threw his hands up in despair.

"Sure."

House went to move off and then hesitated. "I need something to cut the cage off. Tritter locked it."

Wilson didn't know what he was referring to at first and then he remembered the contraption around House's waist and groin. He'd ordered House to get dressed but hadn't said anything about it. He must have put his pants on over the top. He found some sharp scissors and wordlessly handed them to House.

House took the scissors and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Wilson collapsed onto a chair. He was shaking now - the adrenaline of his clash with Tritter having worn off. He didn't know what he would have done if Tritter had put up more of a fight. He closed his eyes, unable to unsee the image of House bent over that table being raped. Dear God, what had his friend's life been like these last years? House seemed to regard something like that as normal.

"Wilson?" He heard House's tentative voice and looked up to see House standing there awkwardly with the scissors in one hand, his pants pulled up with the other. "I can't cut it."

"The scissors should be sharp enough..."

"No," House shook his head. "I mean, I can't cut it off. A free man put it on me - a slave can't destroy things like that. I just can't..." He held out his hand which was shaking. "I tried."

Would this nightmare never end? He put out his hands for the scissors and took them, gesturing for House to drop his pants.

House did so and Wilson got a good look at the cage. It was held on by a strap around House's waist and he cut that first. The cage itself was locked with a padlock and he carefully cut through one side of the plastic, aware of House's genitals just inches away. He tried to think of this as a medical procedure. He'd taken worse things out of people's asses before this, and even some ingenious devices from genitals.

When the cage came off he could see that there were spikes on the inside, which would have pressed down on House's cock as it became engorged. It would have been extremely painful. Without thinking he bent over the cock, examining it. The surface was reddened, and abraded in some places.

"You'll need some cream for that."

"I can do it," House said stiffly, awkwardly pulling his pants up.

"I should examine..."

"No." House started backing away. "I'm a doctor too in case you've forgotten. It's fine. Thanks for cutting it off."

He retreated to the bathroom, almost running, and Wilson heard the shower come on, full force - as if House could wash away what had happened that night. He listened to the water and stared at the walls of the apartment, wishing that the last three years had never happened.

They couldn't go on like this, something had to change. He had to make things better for both of them. Somehow.


	17. Chapter 17

_The men have found a new use for the slave. He's naked, on all fours, on the tiled floor. His cock and balls have been forced into a too-small cage, a dildo rests in his ass, and a large gag fills his mouth. A pizza box lies open on his back and the men help themselves from it, dripping cheese and toppings over the slave as they eat._

_When the pizza is finished the box is taken away and the slave relaxes, hoping the ordeal is over. Instead four plastic glasses are filled with beer and placed on his back._

_"If you spill any you can clean the floor with your tongue. Now, be a good piece of furniture and hold yourself nice and still for us."  
_   
_The men keep watching the game and drinking their beer while their human coffee table struggles to hold himself still. His bad leg trembles with the strain but he holds fast until one of the men pulls the dildo out and then rams it back in. The slave bucks and the glasses crash to the floor, spilling what remains of their contents.  
_   
_The gag is taken out and the slave bends his head to lick at the floor. He keeps at it until all the beer is gone. Then he's grabbed and taken outside, to be thrown over a rough wooden table. Hands grab the dildo, removing it and forcing his legs apart._

_His hair is grabbed and his head is yanked up. He looks up into familiar brown eyes now filled with hatred._

_Wilson is holding a whip._

_"Please Wilson, don't... you said that you weren't going to hurt me... that I wasn't really your slave, " the slave says, flinching away._

_"I told you that, and you let that piece of shit Tritter fuck you anyway. Did you enjoy going to him? I found you, spent a shitload of money for you, took you in and all I have to show for it is a fucking whore of a slave who lied to me and delivered himself to the hands of that sick bastard."_

_"Wilson, please, I didn't want to go, he threatened... "_

_"Shut up, I don't want to hear it," Wilson commands and pushes him back over the table. He trails the whip down the slave's spine._

_The slave tries one more time. "Please, Wilson. I'm your friend," he begs. "Please don't. I'll be good. Please."_

_"You're no friend of mine, you're just a pathetic slave who let himself be taken by these assholes. Well, I'll show you what happens to sluts. Count!"_

_"One!" The slave yells out as the whip cut his bare skin for the first time. He's been whipped before, but he never thought it would happen at Wilson's hands. The pain is doubled. He begins to sob as the whipping goes on_

* * *

After the events of the evening Wilson couldn't sleep. He couldn't stop reliving what had happened. His mind was racing around in endless circles of anger, doubt and recrimination. He was pacing the living room when he heard sounds from House's room. House was mumbling in his sleep and making sounds of distress. Wilson had turned towards the room, uncertain whether to intrude or not when he heard a shout.

"Please, don't," House yelled out. Wilson ran to his room, his heart pounding. House seemed to be having a nightmare; he was thrashing around frantically in the bed. "You said you wouldn’t hurt me!" he cried out. 

"House! It’s just a dream, wake up!" Wilson turned on the lights, shaking his friends shoulder slightly. "One!" House yelled, his eyes still closed, pain written across his face. Tears stained his cheeks.

"House, wake up!" Wilson said again, shaking him more firmly this time. "Wake up!" 

House's eyes opened, and he stared right through Wilson, without seeing him. He abruptly sat up, his breath coming in harsh pants. Wilson wasn't sure if he knew where he was.

"House, it's okay. It was just a nightmare. You're safe now." Wilson frowned as he stared at House, he looked flushed. He put a hand out to touch House's forehead and gauge his temperature.

"Don't, don't touch me," House said, looking embarrassed and ashamed. He stared down at the sheets but he didn't move away.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Wilson asked, frowning. The covers were tangled around House and he tried to pull them away. House grabbed the covers firmly

"I... I wet the bed," House said, still not meeting Wilson´s eyes.

"Oh," Wilson said, taking his hand back. He pulled himself together. He was a doctor, this was nothing new. "It's okay. You were having a nightmare and couldn't wake up. Go and clean up and I'll turn the mattress and change the sheets." 

"No! Please... just... leave me alone for a moment," House requested. He was still avoiding Wilson's eyes.

Every protective instinct Wilson had made him want to stay but he had to grant his friend privacy if he wanted it. House had little enough to call his own. Wilson couldn't deny him any dignity he could carve him out for himself. 

"Okay, but call me if you need me," Wilson answered with a reassuring smile his friend didn't see. 

As he left the room Wilson was already thinking about a diagnosis of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. The problem was that House's trauma was still ongoing. He was still a slave. Wilson could try and make his life easier but the stressor would always be there. Not for the first time since he'd 'bought' House Wilson wondered how the hell they were going to survive this.

* * *

By the time Wilson returned with clean sheets House had showered and was dressed in a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, head hanging down, exhausted and clearly in pain. Wilson gently urged him off the bed and quickly turned the mattress and remade the bed with fresh sheets.

When House was back in bed Wilson brought him some Vicodin and some water. House was still avoiding his gaze.

"It's okay. Nightmares are to be expected after what you've been through, and after what happened tonight..."

"What would you know about what I've 'been through'? You have no damned idea. You probably think Tritter is the worst thing." House laughed hollowly. "He doesn't even make the top ten. You have no fucking idea what this is like."

"Then tell me." Wilson didn't know if he could stomach listening to it, but he wasn't going to leave House to carry those memories alone.

House shook his head. "No. I'm never telling you."

"House..."

House closed his eyes and turned away from him. "You're the one good thing left in my life, Wilson. I'm not going to poison our friendship by telling you exactly what I've become or the things people have done to me. You can barely look at me _now_. Please, go away."

"House..." Wilson said again, helpless. He touched one huddled shoulder and felt House flinch away from him. "House, I'll go - but I'm here if you need me." He reluctantly left the room, leaving the light on for his friend. Maybe it would help to chase the dreams away.

* * *

When House emerged in the morning he was limping heavily – pain written large in every movement. He avoided Wilson’s gaze, muttered a quick ‘good morning’ and went straight to the closet to get out his cleaning equipment. Wilson was ready for him. He’d barely slept the night before after House’s nightmare and he’d had plenty of time to think about how he wanted to approach this, and to make plans.

“No need to do that this morning. I already did it,” he said. He’d spent a good hour going over the apartment quietly while House slept. With the constant work House put into it the apartment was the cleanest it had ever been. Not even the SAC could fault it.

“Don’t see a collar around _your_ neck,” House muttered, still staring at the floor.

“This is my apartment too. I'll do my fair share of the cleaning work." Wilson blocked his access to the closet. "Besides, we’re taking the day off and I want to make an early start. I’ve made some pancakes for breakfast.”

House finally looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot and his expression was uncertain.

“I have to work."

Wilson shook his head. "No, you come into the hospital because I go in. If I don't go in, you don't go in. And I'm not going in. I've already contacted Cuddy and told her."

"Your patients..."

"I have a whole department of doctors to take care of my patients." Wilson put some pancakes on a plate and passed them over to House. "Eat those and then we'll get cleaned up and go."

House ate gingerly - like he was expecting something to happen the whole time. He kept glancing nervously at the door and sat on the edge of his chair perched for flight. Wilson tried to keep up a steady stream of chatter but House's replies were mono-syllabic and in the end Wilson left him to eat in peace. Last night's events lay awkwardly between them. 

Wilson wished they could dispense with the leash and the hood, and the damned harness but they couldn't take a chance so they went through the usual ritual. Wilson made sure he told House where they were going first. There were some woods not far out of Princeton. Wilson had taken a date out there once. There were some areas that were isolated, and there were unlikely to be other people there on a workday. It was a chance for the two of them to get away for a few hours - with no fear of the SAC turning up unexpectedly.

Once they were there Wilson snagged a picnic table for them and then produced some sacks out of the trunk of his car with sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. It was a warm day and he sat back and breathed in the fresh air. House was still looking a little apprehensive but he slowly began to relax as he realised that there really wasn't anyone around.

Wilson talked quietly for a while, running through a case or two that he was having problems with. House always felt more certain when he was dealing with medicine and he offered his usual acerbic opinions. Wilson poured them both a mug of coffee and pushed House's over to him.

House stared down at the drink and then back at Wilson. 

"What's all this about, Wilson? I'd suspect that you were trying to get me drunk so I'd talk about my _feelings_ but coffee isn't going to do it - unless you've hidden half a bottle of my friend Jack in there."

Wilson smiled softly. "No Jack, sorry. I just thought you could use a break from everything. I know I can."

House tapped his fingers on the table, looking around them. He took a gulp of the coffee and then looked away.

"You used the GPS in the collar to find me last night," he said at last. 

"Yes," Wilson admitted. "I didn't know what else to do. You wouldn't tell me where you were going. After how you were the first time... I knew you were in trouble. I thought someone from the hospital... "

House looked back at him sharply, his face colouring slightly. "What? You think someone there _lured_ me away for a night of wild sex or something. And I agreed to that?"

 _You agreed to be abused by Tritter_ , Wilson thought. 

"I didn't know what else to think. The first time I thought maybe you had an escape planned."

House's eyes widened. "And you let me go? You would have been in trouble for letting a slave walk out by themselves like that."

"If that was what you had in mind it wasn't my place to stop you. I'm not holding you against your will, House. You may have that collar but you're still free as far as I'm concerned."

House stared at him, clearly surprised. After a while he dropped his gaze. 

"I'm fucked up, Wilson." he said quietly. "You thought I was fucked up before but I was the poster boy for mental health compared to how I am now. They do things to you... when they make you a slave. They teach you that you're nothing. Less than nothing. They condition you to obey - instantly. Whatever it costs you. Sometimes... I'm not going to be able to control what I do, how I react to you, and to other people. If people know the right buttons to push they can get me to do almost anything."

 _Like go with them when you don't want to and bend over a table while they rape you and laugh about it._ Wilson was sickened. House had always been a person who knew his own mind. He'd never do _anything_ he didn't want to do. Now he had no choice. 

"I need to protect you," he said slowly. He couldn't let anything like that happen again and he was in the best position to help House. 

House reluctantly nodded. "From other people and from myself."

"Then you need to _let_ me protect you. Tell me what is going on if you're having problems. If people are trying to make you do something that they shouldn't."

"You want to hear when people are being _mean_ to me? I'd be running to you every minute."

"If you want to tell me I want to hear it," Wilson said firmly. "And I _do_ want to hear when anyone is abusing you like that. They don't have the right, House. Not while I 'own' you." He made air quotes with his fingers so that House wouldn't misunderstand.

"The SAC..."

"We can't live under the threat of someone running to the SAC. Otherwise anyone can do anything they want to you, using that as blackmail. We're doing everything right. They've approved the apartment. You're doing a menial job at the hospital. You're wearing those ridiculous orange coveralls. They know we used to know each other and they haven't taken you away. And if they ever try I'll hire every lawyer in Princeton to get you back."

"And Tritter..."

"Won't bother us again. I've got a tape of he and his buddies... what they were doing. They can't legally do – that - while you're wearing my tag. Forget about Tritter. He's a coward - he's not going to do anything to jeopardise his own safety."

"Easy for you to say," House muttered.   
House was right of course, it was easy for Wilson to say that Tritter wouldn't be in their lives again. He had no real guarantee of that. Wilson would do everything in his power to keep House safe, or as safe as possible, and that’s all he could say.

It was late in the afternoon, when they were packing up the remnants of their impromptu picnic, that House raised the subject again. Then it was just one word, said so low that Wilson had trouble hearing it.

"Ayersman."

Wilson knew who Ayersman was of course, the man managed to combine being the worst transplant surgeon in the hospital with being the most arrogant. He'd had several run-ins with House back when House was working at the hospital. But why was House dropping his name into the conversation? A chill ran up Wilson's spine as he realised why.

"He did something to you," he said with certainty. House nodded slightly, eyes downcast. 

"That first day, back at the hospital. He called me into his office. Said he'd contact the SAC if I didn't... co-operate."

Wilson cast his mind back to that day. He remembered House coming into his office, desperate to leave. 

"What did he do?"

"What you're thinking," House said bitterly. "What else is a slave good for?"

Wilson thought that he'd never hated anyone quite as much as he hated Ayersman right then. 

"That one time, or... "

"Just the once. I've stayed out of his way since then."

"And nothing else..."

House shrugged. "Nothing like that. Just general harassment. Ordering me around, name calling, pissing on the floor after I've just cleaned the bathroom. Nothing major."

 _Nothing major_ , Wilson thought. Just routine humiliation. Nothing a slave shouldn't expect to deal with. Nothing that House wasn't used to. Nothing compared to what Ayersman, and Tritter had done to him. Nothing major. 

"Thanks for telling me," he said, keeping his voice steady. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but one thing was certain - Ayersman would _never_ touch House again.


	18. Chapter 18

The next day they went back to work. Wilson had thought about just calling them both in sick for a few days - or resigning and spending the rest of House's sentence at home with him. He knew it wouldn't work though - he'd go crazy cooped up all day with House, and the time that House spent working on diagnostics patients was a lifeline to him. It might be difficult for him to be working as a slave in the hospital but glimpses of the old House were there as he pored over medical files. To sentence him back to a life of cleaning Wilson's apartment floor was not a solution.

Instead he went to visit Ayersman. 

The surgeon was working in his own office when Wilson found him. Wilson entered without seeking permission and then turned around and closed the door behind him.

"Wilson? What the hell do you want? I'm busy here." Ayersman greeted him, his eyes cold. 

"Keep your hands off my property, Ayersman."

Wilson kept his voice cold, and his face hard. He was getting plenty of practise at pretending House was nothing to him but a possession. It wasn't true, and would never be true, but Ayersman wouldn't understand that.

"Your property?" Ayersman feigned confusion. 

"My slave, House. He's mine, he's tagged to me and he is _not_ to be used by anyone besides me. Ever."

Ayersman smirked at him, leaning back in his office chair.

"You act tough, Wilson, but we both know that you bought House to 'save' him," he said, making little air quotes around the word save. "House always had you wrapped around his fingers like a little lap dog. You were always running after him to clean up his messes for him. You were too stupid to realise that he was ruining any hope that you had of a normal life - or of progression in this hospital. You're tainted by your association with him."

"I did buy House to save him. But then a strange thing happened. I found that I liked having him like this. I can control him now, I can make him do anything I want. He's obedient and compliant. He's totally dependant on me. No more stupid games, no more getting me into trouble. If I tell him to get on his knees and suck he does." Wilson leaned on the desk and stared into Ayersman's eyes. "I _like_ him like this." 

Ayersman looked interested and Wilson knew he had him, a creep like Ayersman would have no problem believing that someone would enjoy owning a human being.   
"Then you could share him around. I've got a few friends I could invite over for an evening of fun."

Wilson shook his head, not dropping his gaze. "No, _I_ like him like this. He's mine, and mine alone. After all the crap he's put me through over the years, now it's my turn. I don't share my toys."

Ayersman smiled at him. "Well, if you don't want to share, I guess I'll have to give my contact at the SAC a call. Tell them what's going on here, and how _close_ you two were. It would be such a shame if your _toy_ is taken away. Maybe if he comes onto the open market again, I might buy him. That slave owes me a great deal. I'd enjoy taking it out of him, one piece at a time." He sat back as if he'd just played his trump card. 

"You could do that." Wilson nodded and waved his hand in Ayersman's direction. "They'll probably come out and have a look. We've been inspected before, and I have everything set up properly. They can't take the slave unless there's some proof that I've been going easy on him. They already know that I knew him before. Of course I can produce evidence that he nearly destroyed my practice, twice, and that I have plenty of reasons to want to take my own revenge on him. I can show them that he's working constantly - here and at home, that he's under strict discipline. I can do all that."

He leaned in again. "But I won't have to do that. Because if you make that call, I'll make a few calls of my own. You're the worst transplant surgeon in this hospital, Ayersman. I'll make sure that every hospital administrator on the east coast knows that - and a few other things about you. I hear you're looking to move - you'll never get any further here - there's too many better people ahead of you."

He could do it - he had a _lot_ of contacts in other hospitals. He didn't want to - he wanted Ayersman out of this hospital and out of their lives - but he would to protect House. 

"So, it's simple - don't go near my slave again - and I won't blackball you."

The two men stared at each other and finally Ayersman looked away.

"He was a lousy fuck anyway. Just keep your piece of crap slave out of my way, Wilson. If he comes sniffing around here looking for seconds I'll kick his ass so hard he'll bounce on his way back to you."

Wilson's left hand balled up into a fist and he thought momentarily about how much better he would feel with one solid punch to the asshole's jaw. Then he thought of House and instead nodded tightly.

"It's a deal."

He got out of there before he could do something he would regret and once safely in the corridor outside leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes momentarily, exhausted by the confrontation.

He heard a noise and opened his eyes again. At the end of the corridor the distinctive orange slave coveralls could be seen, their wearer hunched over a mop as he cleaned the floor. At first Wilson's tired brain thought 'slave', but then he realised it was House. He casually made his way over to him, noting that House didn't look up.

"What are you doing here, House?" he asked, keeping his voice down. Ayersman's office door remained closed but there was no point in taking chances. 

"Cleaning the floor, boss," came the laconic reply, along with a vigorous push of the mop which made Wilson's shoes wet. He cursed but inwardly he smiled, any sign that his old friend was still there, buried deep underneath the trauma of what had happened to him, was welcome. Even the ass-like behaviour that would have exasperated him a few years before.

"And you just happened to be in this part of the hospital?"

Now House looked up, his face drawn. "Knew that you would come here first thing. Couldn't resist trying to 'rescue' me again." His words were clipped, strained. "When should I expect them to come for me?"

Wilson shook his head, reaching out to touch House lightly on the arm. "It's not going to happen. Ayersman won't make any trouble for you - and he won't touch you again. I made sure of that."

House glanced down the corridor towards the office. "Can't see any blood."

"I didn't shoot him, House! I just pointed out that it would be in his best interest to back off. I don't think it was the hill he wanted to die on." Or sacrifice his career on. 

"Too bad." House was totally expressionless - Wilson didn't think he was joking. He couldn't blame him for wanting the man dead.

"Hey, you, slave!" A voice rang out and they both turned to see a nurse calling them from a patient room. Wilson didn't recognise her, she must be new. "Clean up in room 506. Be quick about it." She seemed to notice Wilson for the first time. "Oh, sorry, Doctor - were you using the slave?"

He shot a glance at House but he had to shake his head. "No, I'm finished. He can do your clean up for you."

He watched as House took his mop and bucket and went into the patient's room under the nurse's steely gaze. Shit, this whole situation was fucked up. He hung around for another couple of minutes but in the end he had to go and leave House to it. 

He'd get Foreman to make sure he called in House for a consult today if he had to go trawl through the Emergency room and come up with a patient himself.

* * *

Their lives settled into a pattern, a bizarre pattern that Wilson still thought of as a waking nightmare, but a pattern nonetheless. House would invariably get up early and start cleaning up the apartment, and Wilson would join him. Then they'd have breakfast together, clean up and go to the hospital. They'd part in the hospital lobby - Wilson to go to his office, and House to report to his 'boss' - the head of the janitorial department. 

Wilson, Cuddy and the fellows had reached out to every hospital in the state and beyond, and done everything but advertise for patients. The diagnostics department had a waiting list of patients a mile long and Foreman was regularly taking on two or three at a time.

Of course with the added patients they needed House more and more, and his time mopping floors dwindled until it was nothing more than a token. He still had to wear the orange 'slave suit', and subject to being searched when he left the hospital but the majority of his time was spent in the diagnostics office, surrounded by files and books. He couldn't see patients, of course, which House seemed to count as the only positive of his new life, but the fellows followed his instructions as they always had. Foreman might have felt resentful at the usurpation of his position by House but, like all of them, he could see that this was helping House. House was beginning to look more like his old self, and less like the cowed slave they'd found in a bathroom in New York.

Their apartment had been visited once more by the SAC but it had been a much more superficial visit - a quick check that the harsh living conditions for slaves were being enforced. Wilson was beginning to hope that they'd slipped off the SAC radar for the most part. Tritter hadn't made any further approaches, and neither had Ayersman as far as he could tell. 

So he wasn't expecting a panicked phone call one Wednesday morning.

"Wilson, there are two SAC officers in the hospital. They're coming up there to see you," Cuddy spoke quickly and quietly when he answered the phone. 

"Did they say what they wanted?" Wilson asked as he stood up.

"They say that they are here to inspect his working conditions. They'll be there in a minute - I couldn't stall them."

Wilson glanced into Diagnostics. House was standing there, leaning on the whiteboard, clearly leading a differential. The team were seated around the table. He terminated the phone call without another word and rushed in there.

"House, the SAC are coming. Get out of here."

House kept staring at the whiteboard, his eyes staring into the distance. "We're missing something."

Foreman stood up, grabbing the whiteboard marker out of House's hand. "House, we got this. You need to get back to janitorial."

House kept standing there, his mind clearly working overtime as it made the connections that only he could make. Wilson recognised all the signs of an impending epiphany but this was absolutely _not_ the time for one. He heard the elevator door chime and glanced outside to see two men making their way towards the office. It was too late for House to leave. He glanced around and almost pushed House at the coffee machine.

"House! Make it look like you're cleaning!"

House paid no attention to him. His eyes had lit up and he had that look on his face that Wilson was so familiar with. _He knew_. Wilson groaned cringed internally as the door to the office was pushed open and the SAC officers strode in. He recognised one of them as Crowley - the senior officer who had been to inspect them twice already now. He'd been suspicious of Wilson's motives from the start. The timing couldn't have been worse. There was no stopping House in mid-epiphany.

"Foreman! Tell our patient that next time she goes to Brazil without her husband knowing she should make sure that no unwanted visitors came back with her." House said. Although he was standing over by the coffee machine it was clear he was in charge here. "Chase, get her started on --" 

"Be quiet, slave!" Crowley strode forward, one fist balled by his side, the other going to the cane clipped at his waist. "Kneel down!"

House seemed to see them for the first time, his eyes going wide. He sunk to his knees but not before snapping out a command to 'go,now!' to his team. 

The fellows were frozen, torn between rushing out the door and staying to support House. Wilson nodded to the doorway.

"Go and start treatment for your patient," he said quietly. "I'll look after this."

Crowley started to protest but Wilson shook his head. "This has nothing to do with them, and they have a patient who'll die if they don't act quickly."

They quickly left and Crowley turned his attention back to the kneeling slave. 

"What were you doing, slave?" he asked, the cane in hand now. "I was told you were cleaning bathrooms in the hospital while your master was working. This doesn't look like a bathroom."

"The slave used to be a doctor," Wilson tried for a casual air. "He has a certain... expertise. Those other doctors asked his opinion."

Crowley laughed and casually tapped the cane against House's side. "A slave with an opinion, I've seen everything now. Well, slave, my _opinion_ is that as you seem to have forgotten how to kneel when an officer comes into the room that you can practise. Get up."

House struggled to his feet without his cane and stood with his head bowed. 

"Now kneel." Crowley flicked the cane out, striking at House's ass. House flinched as it made contact but dropped to a kneeling position, his head bowed. 

"Up!" Crowley commanded and again House rose. "Kneel! Quicker this time."

He kept House at it for ten repetitions, using the cane to urge House to move quicker. The tenth time House could barely stand up, his leg obviously seizing up. When he knelt Wilson prayed that it would be over. He hadn't dared protest but he couldn't stand to watch this anymore. 

"Right down this time, slave. Nose to the ground, ass in the air." Crowley commanded and watched as House bent over further, his body contorted painfully. "Hold that while I talk to your master." Crowley turned to Wilson. "Now, Doctor Wilson, explain again why this slave isn't doing his proper duties."

Wilson glanced at House, that position had to be really hurting him after that exertion. 

"Can he be released? He has a bad leg, if you keep him in that position he'll be useless to me for days."

Crowley sighed. "Your regard for the slave's welfare isn't convincing me that you are the right owner for him, Doctor Wilson." He walked over and prodded House with the cane. "Flat on your belly, slave. Hands behind your head, legs apart." House scrambled into the required position, lacing his hands behind his head and putting his face towards the floor. Crowley nodded. "Now, hold _that_ position so you don't hurt that 'bad leg' of yours."

He turned to Wilson again, and spoke with exaggerated patience. "Now, if you don't mind, Doctor Wilson."

"As I said, the slave used to be a doctor. Using his abilities as a doctor is no different to using his ability to mop a floor. Occasionally we take him from his cleaning duties and make him work on diagnosing patients. Then he goes back to cleaning."

"Hmmm." Crowley made a disapproving sound and walked over to where House was lying flat on the ground, face down. He prodded him with the cane. "Slave, why don't you tell Doctor Wilson what happens to slaves in training who try and think for themselves?"

House kept his face pressed flat to the floor - he hadn't been told to turn. "Sir, they are punished. A slave's job is to do exactly what they are told. A slave is only fit to obey the orders of others." He answered in a flat tone, as if reciting from rote. 

"Good boy," Crowley praised House in a way that made Wilson sick to his stomach, he hated seeing House like this. 

"It's poor discipline for him, Doctor Wilson. You let him pretend to be a human being and he'll never settle into his real work. He needs routine, and hard work, and discipline. You saw what happened when we came in - he didn't kneel as he's supposed to. You have him up there, giving orders to free people, and it destroys his discipline. You'll ruin him. After all the work that went into training him."

"I'll... bear that in mind," Wilson said. The warped view of these people was ridiculous. Could Crowley actually believe House was better off as a slave than as a doctor?

Crowley looked around the room, his gaze settling on the conference table. He tapped the surface with his hand.

"This will do. Slave, get up."

House levered himself off the floor painfully and stood demurely before Crowley, hands behind his back and head lowered.

"Strip off."

House hesitated, glancing over at Wilson and Crowley struck him with the cane, catching his right arm. House made a sound of pain but otherwise made no move to get out of range. 

"This isn't necessary," Wilson protested. "He's _my_ slave. Any punishment should come from me but he was only doing what I told him to. I won't get him to do that anymore."

"Good. I'm not punishing him for doing what you told him to. I'm instilling discipline that he's lost with this nonsense. Instant obedience is a hard reflex to instill in slaves. See how he's hesitating now? A well trained slave would have been naked in ten seconds. If he takes any longer I'm doubling the number of strokes."

House was pulling his overalls off, but very slowly. At Crowley's words he moved a little faster, stripping off the t-shirt he wore underneath. His hands hesitated on the waistband of his boxers but then he pushed them off as well, stepping out of them and then again putting his hands behind his back and his head down.

"Bend over the table, legs apart." Crowley commanded.

Wilson watched helplessly as House complied, his arms and hands stretched along the cold glass surface of the table.

Wilson was about to protest again when he heard a soft gasp. Cameron was in the doorway, her hand to her mouth. The other two were a step behind her. Chase's face was flushed and Foreman's was stony with anger. 

"Come back later," Wilson started to say but Crowley stopped his with a hand on his arm. "No, Doctor Wilson, they should stay for this. So they understand what a slave is." He turned to the fellows. "Come in, the slave is about to be punished for neglecting his duties." He waved a hand to the other side of the conference table as if he were a genial host. "Stand there, out of the way."

"Are you going to offer us refreshments?" Chase spoke up, his eyes darting from where House was stretched out over the table to Crowley, and then to Wilson, imploring him to do something. "We don't need to see this."

"I heard how he was talking to you. As if you were the slaves, and he was the free man. All of you have to understand that can't be allowed to happen. So you will stay."

The fellows stood in a small clump by the table. The surface was glass so House was completely exposed to their gaze. His face was turned away from them but his whole body was tense, the skin flushed. Wilson could see that he was trembling.

A heavy silence fell over the room and Wilson just hoped that Crowley would get this over with quickly and get out. 

Crowley held up his cane and then turned to Wilson. "Ten strokes of this please, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson heard Cameron gasp, and saw House twitch his head. He stared at the cane in shock.

"You... you want me to..."

"Of course, you're his owner."

"I... don't know how..."

Crowley let out a soft sound of amusement. "It's not really difficult, Doctor Wilson. Aim for his ass and hit as hard as you can." 

Wilson held up his hands in protest. "Look, he doesn't need this. We won't use him for medical consults any more. But I don't need to cane him."

"Doctor Wilson, I will make this simple for you. Either way I'm putting in a report to my superiors of the situation here. If you cane him now he can stay here until a decision is made. If you refuse, I will have no choice but to take the slave into my custody now. He'll be taken to the cells at the SAC until a proper determination can be made into your fitness to keep him. You're his owner. This is your problem and your responsibility. Now, ten strokes. The slave will keep the count for you."

Wilson took the cane numbly and stared at it and back at House. He was aware of the eyes of the fellows on him. He couldn't let Crowley take House. Once House was in the system Wilson knew it would be a lot harder to get him back. 

He stepped behind House and took a firm grip on the cane.

"Doctor Wilson, you can't!" Cameron called out, only for Chase to grab her arm, shaking his head at her. She fell silent.

Wilson wanted to close his eyes so he didn't have to see what he was doing but he knew he had to be careful about this. He had to make sure that he hit only the fleshy part of House's buttocks - not that there was much padding there now.

He took a deep breath and swung at House. His stroke was tentative and he pulled it back at the moment of contact.

"That one doesn't count." Crowley said. "Really, Doctor Wilson, I'm sure you can do better than that. You're only making this harder for the slave. They tell me the anticipation is worse than the caning."

Wilson doubted that. He'd seen how much pain a caning caused when he'd first encountered Crowley. He was right though, he needed to get this done as quickly as possible, and with no more strokes than necessary. 

He tried to clamp down on his emotions and again swung at House's buttocks. This time he managed to follow through and the cane impacted solidly with House's flesh. A vivid red line appeared and House trembled with the impact. His hands were gripping the sides of the table and Wilson saw his knuckles whiten.

"One, sir. Thank you, sir," House squeezed out in a pained voice. 

Somehow Wilson got through the next nine strokes. He tried to avoid any spots he'd hit previously but he knew he was causing House a great deal of pain. House's voice got steadily weaker and hoarser as he thanked Wilson for every bit of agony Wilson was putting him through. His grip on the side of the table grew weaker and he seemed to shrink into himself with every stroke. Wilson could see the beads of sweat all over his body and the trembling was even more visible now.

"T...ten, sir." House ground out and then gasped as a fresh wave of pain struck him. "Thank you.... sir...."

"Is that sufficient?" Wilson asked coldly, handing the cane back to Crowley. He couldn't help but notice a couple of drops of blood clinging to the surface. House's blood. Several of the welts had broken the surface of the skin. 

Crowley nodded. "Yes, that will do for now." He looked down at House. "You may resume your former position on the carpet, slave."

House got up painfully and staggered a couple of steps back to where he'd been lying before. He dropped to his knees and then down to his belly, his face turned away from them. His abused ass was on display for all of them to see. 

Wilson tore his gaze away to see that all three fellows were staring at him, shock on their faces. He deliberately hardened his own expression. House's suffering would be in vain if Crowley took House away. 

Crowley gathered up his fellow officer with a nod. "I think we have all we need for today, Doctor Wilson. As I said, I will be putting in a report on this ... situation. You'll be hearing from us."

They both left.

"House..." Wilson dropped to his knees besides House's body. "House, I'm so sorry." He looked up at Foreman. "Get his Vicodin, it's in my jacket pocket in my office. "Chase, Cameron, can you go and tell Cuddy they're gone?"

"What the hell happened here?" Wilson turned around at the exclamation and saw Cuddy standing in the office doorway - her horrified gaze on House. 

"Oh, let's invite the rest of the hospital too," House said weakly and Wilson was glad to hear his voice, and that there was still some fight in it. 

Chase and Cameron had taken the hint and left at least, Chase with his arm around Cameron, steadying her. Foreman quickly brought the Vicodin and then took off as well. 

Wilson gathered up House's clothing and pulled the blinds to the conference room closed. 

"Cuddy, can you give us a moment?" Wilson looked up at her. She was still staring down at House and Wilson knew that he wouldn't want her to see him like this. And Wilson didn't want to tell her what had just happened. What he had just done. 

"Wilson..."

"Please, Cuddy!"

She stared at him a moment longer and then went into the office next door.

"They're all gone, House. Can you get up?"

House didn't answer but he pulled himself over onto his side and Wilson helped him stagger back to his feet. He all but put House's t-shirt on for him and then stood there with the boxers in his hand.

"Don't get shy now, Wilson. Just..." House made a gesture and shakily held one leg off the ground. As quickly as he could Wilson helped House slip the boxers on and then pull them up. He breathed a sigh of relief when House was again clothed, although he knew how much damage those clothes were hiding. 

Sitting would be out of the question for House so Wilson left him holding himself up with one of the chairs that sat around the table.

"You'd better get Cuddy back in here before she finds out what's in the third drawer," House cracked, but there was no humour in his voice.

"About what I did..."

"You did what you had to, Wilson. It's nothing. You hit like a girl anyway."

"It's not nothing!" Wilson yelled and was horrified to see House flinch away from him. Both men fell silent. The reality of what had just happened hung between them. Wilson tried to think of something to say that would make this better, but there were no words for this. Instead he went over to the inner office and gestured for Cuddy to join them.

She looked between them, her expression uncertain. She hadn't witnessed the caning, but she'd seen the damage done to House. Wilson was relieved that she didn't yet know that Wilson was responsible for that damage. 

"Are you okay?" she asked House and then bit her lip. It was obvious he wasn't. 

"Peachy," he ground out, leaning heavily on the back of a chair. "Apparently the SAC don't think that a slave should be doing medicine."

"Maybe we should stop..." Cuddy started uncertainly.

"No." House said.

"House, it's not worth the risk," Wilson said. "I know you want to but..."

"There are only two things keeping me going. Doing medicine again, and you." House lifted his head and stared at Wilson. "I need you, Wilson. Don't fall apart on me now. Not because of this. You told me we couldn't live in fear of the SAC and what they might do. You were right. I don't want to live like that anymore."

He straightened up, hissing at the pain. "Get the fellows back in here. They haven't had a chance to tell me I was right yet."

Wilson paged Foreman and then bolted out of the conference room, ignoring Cuddy's shout. Let House, or more likely Cameron, tell her what had happened, if they wanted. He went straight to the nearest bathroom, mercifully it was empty. 

After he'd lost his lunch he stared at himself in the mirror. He could still feel the cane in his hand, the sensation of it hitting bare flesh and the pain that it had caused. He balled one fist up and hit the mirror, and then again, and then again. Then he sank to the floor, cradling his bruised hand. 

After a while he stood shakily and put himself to rights. If House could bear all this then he could too. He had to.


	19. Chapter 19

Wilson was in the clinic, doing his weekly hours, when the man came in. He was tall, and thin, and looked to be in his forties. He was wearing a dark suit and walked with a confidence and a bearing that drew all eyes to him. He went up to the reception desk and talked to a nurse who pointed to Wilson. 

"Doctor Wilson," the man's voice halted Wilson as he went to pick up another file folder. "I need to talk to you about your slave."

Fear gripped Wilson. It had been five days since he'd caned House and they'd heard nothing from the SAC. House's physical wounds were healing but both men had been living in a state of uncertainty. House had insisted on keeping working for diagnostics, although he'd also made sure that he was highly visible around the hospital with his mop and bucket, doing janitorial work. 

House's fellows had been cool to Wilson since it happened - Cameron could barely look at him. Wilson didn't blame her; he didn't like to look at himself either. However many times he'd told himself that he'd had no choice but to beat House he couldn't escape the fact that the bloody welts on House's ass were his doing. Every time he'd applied antiseptic cream to them and seen the bruises and the swelling he'd cringed inside. 

This man wasn't wearing the uniform of the SAC but who else would be enquiring about 'Wilson's slave'?

"In here," Wilson gestured to an empty exam room. They both entered the room and Wilson closed the door behind them.

"My name is Adrian Damon Harris," the man said as he passed Wilson a business card. When Wilson glanced at the card he found out that Harris was the chief executive officer of the SAC. Not a man who would be sent to deal with an errant slave.

He shook Harris's hand reluctantly. He wanted nothing to do with the organisation that was capable of such cruelty towards its helpless subjects. 

"What can I do for you, Mr Harris?"

Harris fixed him with a stare from his ice cold blue eyes. 

"You own a slave. That slave has recently been the subject of a report by one of our New Jersey officers. He's been practising medicine, against all slave regulations, and no doubt against all medical board regulations. The officer who investigated recommended that your ownership be overturned and the slave returned to the control of the SAC."

Wilson's blood ran cold. Just what he had feared. He still didn't know what Harris was doing here though - if they came for House it would be in uniform, with chains. 

"Attached to the report was a history of who your slave used to be. I had an interest in the matter so I researched that name. Doctor Gregory House, a renowned diagnostician before he disappeared from this hospital, only to engage in criminal activity which led to his enslavement. You using the slave in this hospital made sense then."

"I'm glad you understand why he was working with some doctors here in a consultative position." Wilson said. Maybe there was some hope after all. Anyone who'd researched House would know it was ludicrous to use him to mop floors when people's lives were in the balance.

Harris shook his head. "No, what he - and you- were doing was wrong. The whole slavery system will perish if we allow slaves to take liberties because of some skill they had before they were enslaved. You should never have been allowed to buy him - we will be tightening our restrictions on that."

"He was saving lives!" Wilson protested.

"That is not our concern. Our concern is to make sure that slaves are properly controlled, and punished for their crimes." He paused, and looked away slightly for the first time since their conversation began. "Doctor Wilson, I agree with my officer that your slave should be taken back into SAC custody but I am willing 'to turn a blind eye' as it were, this one time provided that you allow me to use your slave."

His first thought was that Harris wanted to abuse House as Tritter, and Ayersman had. And Wilson would allow that over his cold dead body.

"My daughter is sick. Very sick. We've taken her to three different specialists and nobody has been able to find the cause. From everything I've read your slave used to the best person to go to for a diagnosis. What I need to know is, is that still true? My daughter has no time to waste."

Wilson felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe Harris would forget the report if House could help with his daughter. 

"Yes, if there is anyone in America who can diagnose your daughter it would be him. You people made him a slave, but you haven't destroyed his brain." Wilson couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice, even as he told himself he had to be pleasant to this man.

"Then get him in here," Harris ordered. 

Wilson was about to reply when there were a loud crash from outside the exam room door, and the sounds of people shouting and running. 

Flinging open the door he saw a pair of security guards holding someone to the ground, their arms forced up behind their back, their face smashed into the ground. As he watched one of them kicked the fallen body in the ribs. The orange coveralls were all that were visible of the slave but Wilson immediately knew who it was. 

He ran over there and saw that the guard was busy locking a pair of handcuffs around House's wrists.

"What is this? What has he done?" Wilson asked, trying to keep his voice calm and cold. It was still important to keep up appearances, especially with Harris here. 

"Fucking slave put his hands on a kid in the clinic waiting area. Kid had just been sick and the slave was supposed to be cleaning it up. Instead he started pawing the kid." He went to kick House again but Wilson stopped him with a hand.

"No. If anyone punishes the slave it will be me. Get him to his knees."

The guards hauled House bodily into a kneeling position and Wilson could see that his face was bruised; a trickle of blood ran down from his mouth. 

"What happened, House?" Wilson asked sternly.

"The boy was running a temperature; I could see that he had a rash under his shirt. I asked him to lift his shirt so I could have a better look. His vomit had blood in it."

Wilson looked up and called out to the nurse on duty. "The boy who was sick, put him in exam room two and page Doctor Foreman to examine him."

"Take the handcuffs off. I'll deal with this," Wilson said to the guards. The guard looked reluctant but released them roughly. Wilson could see red marks around House's wrists from where they had been. 

"Get up and go to my office," Wilson said to House. "Wait for me there."

"Yes, sir," House said meekly, aware of the eyes on them. He looked around for his cane, found it and then limped slowly off, clearly sore from the treatment of the guards. 

"I presume that is the slave I came to see?" Harris asked when the crowd had dispersed. "I can see why my officer was concerned."

"But I guess you still want him to see your daughter?" Wilson asked mildly. 

Harris's face was screwed up in disapproval but he nodded. "Yes. If that slave is the best then that's who I want."

Wilson held onto his temper at Harris calling House 'that slave' and gestured for Harris to follow him to his office.

* * *

House was half sitting, half lying on Wilson's couch when the door opened. 

"Get off the furniture, slave!" Harris snapped as soon as he saw him. "Kneel for your master."

"That won't be necessary," Wilson said, waving his arm at House. "He has a bad leg, if he kneels for long he'll be in too much pain to do what you want. Stand by the desk, House."

House was already up, responding instinctively to the previous snapped command and he looked warily at Harris. Wilson realised that he had no idea yet who the man was. He shot a look at House, pleading at him to keep his mouth shut, for now at least. House shuffled around to the side of Wilson's desk and stood there, leaning heavily on his cane. 

"Mr Harris is the CEO of the SAC," Wilson explained. "He wants to ask if you will take his daughter's case."

Harris looked shocked at the way Wilson phrased it but Wilson ignored him. He and House had the power here - Harris's daughter was surely more important to him than one slave who might be being treated 'improperly'.

"Mr Harris has agreed to ignore the report that was filed on you with the SAC if you take on his daughter."

House looked from Wilson to Harris. 

"I want more than that."

Harris's face darkened. "This isn't a bargaining table, slave. You have no say in this. Your master has agreed to my terms. That's the end of it. What you want or don't want is irrelevant - and impertinent."

"You can order me to diagnose your daughter but you can't make me succeed." Which meant he would plod through the case, considering only the obvious and earnestly following the same path all the previous doctors had trodden. House was right - Harris couldn't buy that spark of genius House had. 

"Well how about this, slave? If you fail, if my daughter... I will ensure that every day of your life as a slave is pure misery. I will have you taken from here, and put back into training at SAC headquarters - because clearly you are delinquent. I will have you driven beyond your endurance. And I will do everything in my power to have your sentence extended for as long as I can. I will make sure that you die as a slave. That's what I will do. So I suggest that you try _very, very_ hard to succeed."

Wilson held his breath for House's reply. Threatening House to make him do something had been a spectacularly unsuccessful strategy in House's previous life. The threat Harris had just made was very real however, he had the power, and ability, to carry it out. As a lone slave fighting against the system House would be totally vulnerable. 

Wilson watched House closely, he looked calm but the hand on his cane was trembling and his body was strung with tension. He was going against all the slave conditioning that he'd received. Standing up to Harris was the mark of a very brave man.

"Then you can do all that. I will not diagnose your daughter unless you arrange for me to be freed immediately if I am successful. If the kid dies you can do whatever you like with me."

Harris looked like he was about to explode at the slave's boldness.

"That's ridiculous. I do not have the authority to have your sentence commuted. You were sentenced by the court to a set term."

"Sure you do. Your SAC is as corrupt as any quasi-government authority. It doesn't happen often but slaves can be freed under a Special Circumstances clause. Do you want me to cite some previous cases?"

Harris just kept staring angrily at House and Wilson decided it was time to intervene. 

"Can you organise that if he succeeds?"

"It's possible," Harris snapped. 

"Then what do you care if one slave ends his term early? House is crippled, in pain, and aging - nobody is going to miss his services as a slave. What does it matter against your daughter's life?"

"You wouldn't object to losing his services?" Harris narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. Wilson figured that there was little point playing the harsh slave master anymore. If this plan succeeded either House would go free, or he'd be taken from Wilson anyway.

"No, I only brought him to bring him back here. He can do far more good in a hospital than scrubbing my apartment floor. "

Harris nodded. "So my officer was right about you two." He paced a couple of steps, considering and then went to stand toe to toe with House. "You have a deal, slave. You diagnose my daughter and she survives you go free. She dies, you are taken from Doctor Wilson and I make your life a living hell."

"The deal was to diagnose her, not to cure her. She might have one of them icky terminal illnesses."

"Then you'd better make sure she doesn't."

"House..." Wilson didn't like the sounds of this. He had confidence that House could diagnose the girl - but he couldn't guarantee a cure. House looked at him. He was still tense but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"All in, Wilson," he said, "for both of us." He held Wilson's gaze until Wilson nodded, then he looked back at Harris. 

"I'll need it in writing. Or better yet, HD video," House said. "With witnesses."

"You don't trust me, slave?" 

"House, my name is House. Not 'slave'." House drew himself up straighter and looked Harris in the eye. "And no, I don't."

Harris eyed him tensely but then nodded. 

Wilson stood up. "Come on, let's go and talk to Cuddy and get your daughter admitted."

For the first time since he brought House home he could see some hope for a better future for them. 

If he had to bet on someone to succeed in this it would be House.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As neither I nor my co-writer are diagnostic geniuses we've pinched the details of a medical case from an episode - bonus points if you know which one :)

House was standing in front of the whiteboard when the fellows returned from admitting Harris's daughter and running the preliminary tests. All three paused as they came in the door. House had shed the bright orange coverall, and was wearing dark blue jeans, sneakers and a button down shirt - his collar was only barely visible above the neck of his shirt. He'd worked with them quite a lot since his return to the hospital but this was the first time they'd seen their old boss as he used to be. 

He noticed them staring at his clothes and waved a hand over himself.

"Like the new threads? Wilson believes in the magical power of clothes and we're going to need all the help we can get. Sit down kiddies; let Daddy tell you about our new case."

This was new too. He hadn't taken the lead on any of their cases since his return. He seemed to have donned newly found confidence with the clothes. 

He stood aside to reveal the whiteboard and their eyes were drawn to it. 

' _Slave Boss Junior_ ' was written along the top in bold letters.

"Her name is Elizabeth," Chase said as he leafed through his file. 

"Is that diagnostically relevant?" House asked, still writing. 

Chase rolled his eyes and the others smiled at the familiar quip. 

House stepped back to reveal what he had been writing.

_'Cured kid = Free House'. 'Dead kid' = 'Dead House'._

"No pressure or anything," House said brightly. "Now - who wants to go first?"

* * *

Differential complete, and with a preliminary - and probably complete wrong - diagnosis, the three fellows left the conference room. 

Foreman turned on the others as soon as they were out of House's earshot. 

"How can he put that on the whiteboard? It's not like we're going to forget what's at stake here. Adding this pressure isn't going to find the answer quicker. He's making us responsible for his freedom - that's not fair."

"It's his life on the line here. He needs to know that we understand that - all the time," Cameron jumped to House's defence, as usual. "Besides, I thought you believed that people work better with pressure. You're the one who stabbed me with an infected needle so that I'd have an 'incentive' to find a cure for you."

"This is not the time," Chase said, stepping between them as they were squaring off. "Let's just get this done as quickly as possible."

"I don't know why the bastard thinks we want him back anyway," Foreman grumbled, but his heart wasn't in it. Despite himself he _did_ want the bastard back - for good, and without a damned collar around his neck. Nobody deserved that. If curing this kid could achieve that then he wanted it as much as the other two.

* * *

Cuddy paused as she entered the conference room. House was there, as he often was these days, but instead of the orange coverall with the damning word written on it, he was dressed in his old attire - blue jeans with a button down shirt. At first she thought his collar had gone, but she could just see the top of it poking out from under his shirt. 

The whiteboard was set up at the end of the conference table. Cuddy read the words at the top. House was making the stakes of this diagnosis very clear to his fellows. 

Wilson had shared the details of the deal with Cuddy, and she had witnessed the recording Harris had made outlining the terms. Wilson and House were both playing very high stakes poker but there was no one she'd rather bet on it when it came to medicine than House. If anyone could cure the child it would be House. 

"Like the new look?" House asked as he looked up and caught sight of her. 

She entered the room and walked over to him, placing a hand gently on his arm.

"You look good, House."

He stepped away, shaking her hand off. "You don't want to catch slave cooties, Cuddy. I still am one, despite Wilson's best efforts to dress me up like a real man."

"Why..." Cuddy waved a hand at him. 

"It makes Wilson feel better to see me like this."

"Only Wilson?"

He shrugged. "I can't forget what I am, Cuddy. But it doesn't matter. I've got nothing to lose - I'm going back to the SAC if I can't keep slave guy's kid alive anyway. Might as well 'give it to the man'. 

"You're not going back to the SAC. You can do this, House. You'll gain your freedom and then you'll be free to do all the crazy things you used to do to annoy me." What she wouldn't give to be dealing with the shit he used to pull, the stupid mind games, the crude remarks, the rudeness to patients and staff. She'd even welcome him dodging clinic hours again - at least it would mean that he was free to _do_ those clinic hours. 

"You're confusing me with God again, Cuddy. Even if I diagnose the brat she still may have something terminal - she's circling the drain now."

"Do you have any ideas yet?" 

He turned back towards the whiteboard. "Told the team that it's Hirschsprung's. They've gone to confirm."

"And is it?" Hirschsprung's was treatable at least. 

"Sorry, I left my crystal ball in my other pants." He stared at the whiteboard, lost in thought. She knew that look - House wasn't confident in the diagnosis. 

She hesitated, wanting to say something more, but this was his process to go through. She'd only be in the way if she stayed. She put a hand gently on his arm and was saddened when he flinched away again. 

"I'll leave you to it, House. If you need anything, anything at all, let me know."

She braced for a demand for some impossible sex act, or a giant television screen in the conference room, or ten years supply of Vicodin but it didn't come. Instead there was silence. 

When she paused in the doorway to look back House was still staring at the whiteboard. He was leaning awkwardly on the edge of the table; his whole body was tight with tension. He might be making light of this whole thing but he was very aware of what the stakes were. This was literally life or death for him. 

She had to make herself walk away. 

Once she was back in her office Cuddy requested copies of all the files pertaining to the case. She'd keep an eye on what was happening from here, and begin to make plans if necessary. They'd only just found House, they weren't going to lose him again, whatever happened.

* * *

Wilson steeled himself for the daily ritual of examining the welts on House's ass. House had protested him doing so, but after Wilson had seen him wincing his way through a day's work that was enough for him. House couldn't examine or treat them properly, and Wilson wasn't going to take a chance on them becoming infected.

He hated seeing the marks. They were beginning to fade now, and the bruising was going down but every time he saw them he was reminded of that terrible scene in the conference room. House was always quiet during the exams, lying face down with his face pillowed on his arms. He'd never uttered a word of blame, or resentment, towards Wilson and in fact seemed to regard Wilson dwelling on it as strange. 

The matter of fact acceptance of abuse was chilling. 

As Wilson applied the antiseptic cream he took silent catalogue of the other marks he could see. Scars from numerous beatings trailing up his body until they disappeared under the concealing shirt. He wondered if House remembered each one, or if they just merged together into a horrifying history of abuse. 

There were older marks too, ones that he couldn't have received in the last few years. Marks from a belt buckle, and some old cigarette burns. 

House had always hated his father. Now Wilson knew why.

"These are looking a lot better. How are they feeling?" he asked House inanely, trying to fill the heavy silence.

"They're fine," House said, as he always did. 

"Okay, I'm done." Wilson said, turning away to clean his hands on a wipe. Behind him House rolled over on the bed and pulled his boxers and pants up. Wilson gave him plenty of time to get covered up before turning back. 

"How is the case going?" he asked. He'd tried to resist hovering over House during the day. Treat it like any other case, he'd thought, no pressure. He'd seen the fellows go in and out of the office several times, and the last he'd heard they'd been testing for Hirschprung's.

Before House could answer Wilson's phone rang. It was the team, calling for House. House talked to them for a few minutes and then disconnected.

"Kid had a seizure. They had to drill burr holes. Harris was there and saw the whole thing." He tapped his fingers against his cane. "Brain damage after a rectal biopsy - that's something you don't see every day."

"Is she alright?" If Harris's daughter had suffered any permanent damage, or if she had died...

"They relieved the pressure and got her stabilized. But it looks like we can cross Hirschprung's off the board." He ran a hand through his hair wearily. "I need to go back in."

Before Wilson could respond there was a loud knocking on the door and a voice yelled out to 'open the door, now!' 

"Stay here," Wilson said and went off towards the door. As soon as he opened it two uniformed SAC officers shouldered past him.

"The slave, where is he?"

"I'm here," House said, emerging from the bedroom, cane in hand. 

"Drop the cane," one officer said while the other went up to House and roughly spun him around and into the wall. In a quick motion he patted House down and then clipped a chain leash onto his collar and handcuffs onto his wrists. He tugged on the leash.

"Come with us, slave." House dropped his head and stumbled after them, limping badly without his cane.

Wilson got between them and the doorway. "You can't just take him, he belongs to me." Claiming ownership of House was becoming easier all the time. At least that ownership could protect House a little. 

"Orders from Mr Harris. You can come, but the slave goes back to the hospital. The boss wants a word with him." The officer tugged at the leash while his colleague placed a hand on his sidearm and eyed Wilson. Wilson quickly grabbed up House's cane and followed them out the door. 

They'd come in a van and House was unceremoniously hooded and hoisted into the back to lie on the floor. The doors were slammed shut before Wilson could protest further. 

"You didn't need to do this, we were headed back to the hospital anyway," Wilson said as he took a seat in the front of the van. 

The officer shrugged. "You can sort it out with the boss, if you like. I heard his daughter nearly died though - he might not be very receptive."

Wilson realised he wasn't going to get very far arguing with them so he sank back onto the seat, trying not to think of House lying in the back, handcuffed and blinded.

* * *

On their arrival at the hospital House was hauled out of the van and was marched, still hooded and chained, through the hospital to a small waiting room Harris had commandeered for himself. 

There he was thrust to his knees and Harris removed the hood. He bent down and slapped House hard across his face.

"My daughter had to be operated on and you were nowhere to be found. She nearly died due to your incompetence!"

"That's enough!" Wilson moved to stand in front of House. "He is _my_ slave. I will not have him being abused. He came home with me, as he always does, and left three competent doctors in charge of the case. Do you expect him to work twenty four hours a day?"

"If that's what it takes!" Harris answered, his normally icy cold composure breaking. "They told me my daughter had something called Hirschsprung's. That she would be okay. Then she started seizing. They had to drill holes in her skull. And this... this piece of garbage was nowhere to be found. He didn't do anything. He hasn't even _seen_ my daughter!"

"The seizure rules out Hirschsprung's," House said from his position on his knees. His hands were still shackled behind him and he was trembling, but he still commanded attention when he spoke. "This is a process. A new symptom gives us new information to form a new diagnosis. Or you can just go on yelling at me and she'll die. Your choice."

The guard behind him cuffed him hard on the back of his head. "Shut your mouth, slave!"

"If you keep hitting him he won't be able to help you at all," Wilson said. "Take those cuffs off and let him get on with what he does best."

Harris stared at him angrily but then nodded to the officer. "Take the slave's cuffs off."

When House's hands were free the officer hauled him to his feet and Wilson gave him his cane back.

"The slave doesn't leave this hospital until my daughter is cured," Harris said to Wilson. 

"That wasn't part of our agreement."

"I'm making it part of it. He stays here. I'm putting a guard on him who'll report back to me."

Wilson wanted to protest but he didn't dare push this too much, for House's sake. If keeping House here would prevent him being dragged back like this then maybe it was for the best. 

"Your guard will keep his hands off him, and keep out of his way," he said. He glanced at House, who was still looking shaken from the trip here. "Come on, House - we'll go to my office and then you can see your team. Maybe you should go and sit with your daughter, Harris."

* * *

In his office Wilson gave House another dose of Vicodin. 

"Are you okay?"

House was rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had dug in. "I've been bouncing around in the back of a van, what do you think?"

"I'm sorry; I could stop them doing that. Do you have any idea what his daughter has?"

"Not a clue. I'm sure my team will have some stupid theories though." He grabbed up his cane and limped to the door. There was an SAC officer standing just outside and he followed them both to the conference room and came to stand just outside the door.

All three fellows were there, cups of coffee in front of them, the remnants of Chinese takeout strewn over the conference room table. They all looked surprised to see both House, and then the officer. 

"My personal bodyguard," House explained. "Just ignore him. What have we got? Besides some poor kid with holes in their skull because you did a rectal biopsy."

Foreman indicated a scan up on the lightbox. "We were just discussing it. The fluid collection has an odd shape. I think the dural layer was already separated from the brain when the fluid started to build up."

House scrutinised the scan, his face expressionless. "Good catch. Get a Dural biopsy to confirm brain cancer."

The fellows all looked at each other uneasily. 

"What?"

"Maybe it's something else..." Foreman said, his voice trailing off. He knew House had to cure the girl, not just diagnose her.

"Something less fatal? That would be good. Got any ideas?"

They all looked at each in silence and House nodded. 

"That's what I thought. So go get a dural biopsy to confirm brain cancer."

They filed out, aware of the watchful eye of the guard. Wilson knew Harris would be hearing of this possible diagnosis soon. 

"If it is brain cancer I'll be punting her over to your department." House said. "And packing my bags."

"If you've caught it early the prognosis could be good. The odd are..."

"Think her dad is going to care about the odds?"

"It'll be months before we'd know either way."

They hadn't covered the possibility of not knowing the outcome for some time in their agreement with Harris. Once House had diagnosed the child he'd be of no further use to Harris. The best they could hope for was that Harris would let him stay in the hospital, and with Wilson, until the girl had finished her treatment course. 

"It will be a few hours before we get the results of the biopsy," House said. "Apparently I'm sleeping here tonight. Don't forget to use the polish on the floors in the morning."

"If you're here, I'm here," Wilson said. No way was he leaving House here by himself. "I'll get a camp bed taken to my office, you can have that, and I’ll take the couch."

"Great, a slumber party. Just don't ask me to do your hair."

* * *

The results weren't back when they woke up after an uneasy night's sleep. Wilson had his assistant fetch them both breakfast from the cafeteria. The guard was outside the closed door of the office but he kept his voice low anyway.

"If the news is bad we have to work on a way to get you out of this. We'll start treatment - tell Harris the prognosis is good. There's always been rumours of an underground network for escaped slaves. If we can get you over the border into Mexico and then on a plane for Australia - they don't have an extradition treaty with the US - you'll be safe there."

House eyed him sharply. "You've been looking into this?"

"Yes, but I haven't been able to make contact with anyone yet - but the treatment will take weeks or months, I'll find someone who can help. It will be risky - but so is going back to the SAC."

"If I get away you'll be getting a collar around your neck too - you know that."

Wilson swallowed heavily. He knew. Owners whose slaves escaped were made an example of. "I'll be coming with you. I wouldn't let you go by yourself."

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Foreman came in, holding a sheet of paper.

"Biopsy is negative and so is the latest scan. The good news is it's not cancer. The bad news is we still don't know what it is." 

House took the paper and quickly read it. "You give up too quickly, Foreman. It's cancer."

"I just said the biopsy was negative and all his scans were clear." 

"As Doctor Wilson will tell you there's more than one type of cancer. Adenocarcinoma of the stomach would cause pain, constipation, nutritional deficiencies that could cause seizures."

Foreman nodded thoughtfully. "And it wouldn't show up on the CT."

"Gold star. Go and scope him, and get another set of biopsies."

"Her father's going to love that. He's already scrutinising everything we do."

"And I care about what her father doesn't like? I guess I'm lucky I don't have to deal with him. Oh, wait..."

"Okay, I get it." Foreman moved towards the door and then hesitated with one hand on the handle. "Look, you do have some sort of plan B don't you? If this goes badly..."

"Wilson knows people who know people who might know other people. But if your homies have some sort of underground slave smuggling network now would be a fantastic time to speak up."

Foreman rolled his eyes and left without another word. 

"Do you think that's a yes?" House asked, collapsing back onto the couch, only to wince when his ass made contact with the cushions. He hastily slipped one underneath himself.

"If we've caught it early the survival rate is good."

"Kids seen 17 doctors - what are the odds we've caught it early?"

Not good, Wilson thought to himself. 

House nodded. "Yeah, that's what I think too," he said softly.

* * *

As Foreman had thought it was difficult to convince Harris to allow more tests. 

"I thought you said it wasn't cancer?"

"It's not brain cancer - now we think it's in his stomach. This test will confirm."

"More tests, do you people even know what you're doing? This slave - he's supposed to have been some famous doctor? He hasn't even _seen_ Elizabeth."

" _Doctor House_ is well renowned. He specialises in hard to diagnose case. Or at least he did." When Foreman thought of the waste of the last three years of House's life it made him furious. Okay, the man was a total ass, and he'd obviously done something bad enough to get himself enslaved, but it was criminal to have him mopping floors. When he remembered how bad House had looked when they found him in that hotel bathroom it was incredible that he was even able to practise medicine at all. He was obviously deeply traumatised - they'd all seen him flinch at loud voices and drop into a submissive stance in any confrontation. 

The scene in the conference room when Wilson had caned House was something that Foreman didn't let himself remember. 

"Doctor House often doesn't see his patients personally. It allows him to remain completely objective. That's why he has a team."

" _Had_ a team. Don't forget that he's not a doctor now, he's a slave."

"Look, from what I understand you were the one who wanted him for your daughter. What's the point if you're going to refuse to let us do our jobs?" Foreman held out the consent form. "We need to do these tests to confirm it's cancer - and if it is we can start treating her. The earlier we catch it the better."

Harris scowled but took the form and scribbled his signature. He thrust it back at Foreman.

"If my daughter dies, I'll not only take the slave back with me, but I'll hold the rest of you responsible as well. It's amazing how many illegal activities you can find if you probe into even the most respectable person's background."

He stalked off without waiting for a response. 

Foreman looked through the glass wall of Elizabeth's room. Harris was sitting on the edge of the bed holding his daughter's hand and talking softly to her. No sign of his previous anger remained. 

Foreman shook his head and went to get Chase and Cameron to assist in the tests.

* * *

House was resting in Wilson's office when the SAC officer who had been on duty outside the door came in. 

"On your feet, slave. Come with me." He was holding a leash in one hand, ready to clip it onto House's collar. 

House got to his feet obediently but flinched back at the sight of the leash. "That's not necessary."

The officer grabbed him by the shoulder. "Don't talk back to me, slave."

"He's right - it's not necessary," Wilson intervened. There was no way that he was going to allow House to be paraded through the hospital at the end of a leash again. "Where do you want to take him?"

"Mr Harris asked me to bring him to his daughter's room."

"Come on then, we'll all go. But no leash. He's a cripple - it's not like he's going to make a run for it. Your leash will only make it harder for him to walk." Wilson hated speaking for House like this, but House had gone silent, as he usually did in the presence of the SAC officers. He'd explained to Wilson that it was behaviour ingrained into the slaves, but that didn't make it any easier to witness.

The officer hesitated but in the end capitulated and they all made the short journey to Elizabeth's room.

"Look at this, slave." Harris said, opening the front of his daughter's hospital gown to reveal a series of red spots on his chest. "What are they?"

Elizabeth had seized again during the tests and hadn't regained consciousness. Harris was livid. Everything they were doing seemed to make her condition worse. When she came into the hospital she'd been ill with vomiting and listlessness. Now she was in a coma.

House came forward to examine the marks. Wilson noticed that he took care to stay out of Harris's range. He didn't look up to meet the man's angry stare.

"They look like red spots on her chest," House said and Wilson winced. 

"Do not get smart with me, slave!" Harris took a step forward, his fist clenched by his side. 

"I don't know what to tell you. We're trying to diagnose your daughter. This is a new symptom. We don't know what it means yet. You can yell at me all you like but we're still not going to know what it means. You need to let me and my team do our job."

"If you think I'm going to let any of you touch her..."

"At this point you haven't got much choice. I guess you could move her to another hospital but they are just going to run all the same tests." House said, still not meeting Harris's eyes. 

"We should go back to the conference room and run a diagnostic," Foreman said, stepping forward. "This isn't helping your daughter."

"Wait." House said, his eyes on Elizabeth. "Uncover the rest of her body, Cameron."

Cameron looked nervously between House and Harris but went over to the bed and undid the rest of the gown. House moved closer and examined her skin, bending down close to her genitals. Harris grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back.

"Get away from her!"

House put up his hands. "I've seen what I need to. Can I go now?"

"Take your slave out of here," Harris said to Wilson. "Before I show him what it really means to be a slave." He looked at House. "If my daughter dies you'll pay for it for the rest of your life."

He turned back to his daughter and carefully covered her up again.

* * *

The conference room was quiet as the fellows all avoided looking at House. The guard standing outside the door was a constant reminder of the price of failure, as was the collar around House's neck. 

House was standing at the window and staring out over the grounds of the hospital. 

"We should do another differential with the new symptom. The rash must mean something," Cameron said. 

"Don't bother," House said without turning around. "It's Degos disease."

There was a shocked silence behind him. Degos was fatal. 

"It can't be!" Cameron said, her voice shaken. 

"Because we don't want it to be?" House finally turned to face them. His face was drawn and closed off. "That's not how this works. You should know that by now. I'll go tell Harris."

"No, don't," Wilson said. "We need to buy some time."

"You think he won't notice when his daughter dies tomorrow? She hasn't got much more time than that - maybe less."

"He doesn't need to know yet. Chase, Foreman, Cameron - you go out into the hospital, make it look like you're still looking for the answer. Take some blood, run some tests. Don't arouse his suspicions."

"This is pointless, Wilson."

"Then it will be pointless. Go," Wilson said to the fellows. He wasn't going to let House go without a fight. 

When the fellows were gone Wilson ushered House into his own office. "You stay here while I go and see if I can make contact with that patient I told you about."

"Nobody is going to be able to arrange safe passage for a slave and his owner in a few hours, Wilson. And are you forgetting the SAC goon?" He gestured with his head at the closed door, on the other side the SAC officer was still standing guard. 

"We have to try. Stay here; don't talk to anyone until I come back."

When Wilson was gone House sat down on the couch. His ass reminded him that it still had welt marks across it but he ignored it. The pain of that at least detracted a little from the pain of his leg, and from the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him.

The deal with Harris had seemed to be worth the gamble. Betting his freedom against years of unimaginable misery. Now that he had lost that gamble the reality was sinking in. He might only have a few years to go on his sentence, but the SAC chief executive officer would have ways of stretching that out. Once Harris's daughter died he'd see that House paid for as long as possible. A minor transgression as a slave would lead to years more on his sentence. Even if House did nothing wrong Harris could easily frame him.

The hell he'd gone through in the last few years would be nothing compared to what Harris would subject him to. He'd made that very clear. House shuddered when he thought of the 'training camp' that he'd spent six months in. There had been two slaves there who'd been sent back for remedial training, and although House's life had been difficult at the camp, those slaves had endured a level of torture that had left all the new 'recruits' shaken to their core. That was what Harris would do to him. And if he survived the camp there would still be years of misery ahead, with the cruellest owner Harris could find for him. Maybe Harris would even take him himself. 

He wouldn't have Wilson, or Cuddy, or medicine. He'd have nothing, with no hope of things ever getting better. 

He went over to Wilson's desk drawer and opened it to reveal his bottle of Vicodin. 

There were enough pills in there to do the job.

He could take them and just lie down and go to sleep. 

He picked up the bottle and turned it over in his hands. These pills which for so long had helped ease his pain could now end it. Opening the top he tipped a few out into the palm of his hand.

* * *

Wilson had gone in person to the address listed for his patient. This was too important for him to try and make contact over the phone and he couldn't afford to be rejected. He knew that he was grasping at straws here. He'd only heard rumours about his patient's involvement in an underground slave smuggling network, he had nothing concrete to go on. He'd never even heard of a slave escaping before, the chips in their collars, and - according to rumour - implanted deep in their flesh made it almost impossible. If there were any escapes the SAC kept them very quiet. 

He had to try though. He couldn't let House go back to the SAC. He'd seen far too much since he'd brought House home to have any illusions about how it would go for him. 

He kicked himself for agreeing to this bargain of House's. If they'd stuck to Harris's original plan then House would be safe. He would have fulfilled his end by successfully diagnosing the girl, and hopefully Harris would have kept his word and not recalled House to the SAC.

He looked up from the piece of paper in his hand to the derelict building in front of him. This was the address his patient had given to the hospital. But there was nothing here. Nobody had lived here for a long time. 

He closed his eyes and crushed the piece of paper in his hand. Without even this slender lead he had nothing to go on. No way of contacting anyone who could help, even if they managed to get House past the guard who had been dogging his footsteps. 

He got back into his car and headed back to the hospital, the weight of defeat sitting heavily on his shoulders.

* * *

House stood in the doorway of his patient's room. The young girl was still, she hadn't regained consciousness since her last seizure. 

Harris was sitting by her bed, stroking her hand. At that moment he looked like any worried parent. 

The Vicodin had gone back into the pill bottle. House wouldn't surrender like that - not to these people. Not to the people who wanted to destroy him. He wouldn't jeopardise Wilson in any way - Wilson hadn't asked for any of this. He'd go back to the SAC and face what waited for him there and survive. 

He'd see the case through with this, his last patient.

"She has Degos disease," he said, breaking the silence of the room. Harris looked up and took a moment to register him. When he spoke it was without his usual aggression.

"Degos? What is that?"

"It causes micro blood vessels in the brain, skin and GI tract to break down and clot off. There's not treatment, and no cure."

Harris just stared at him blankly, and then blinked a couple of times. "She's going to die?"

"Yes, within twenty four hours, possibly a lot sooner. So you can tell your goon here to take me away. You've won. Just..." he swallowed heavily and looked down to steady to himself. "Please, don't let Wilson see. He's out of the hospital. I could be gone before he comes back."

He didn't want Wilson to see him being taken away. He'd disappear again, like he had before and in time Wilson would go on with his life.  
"No! You have to do something... you have to cure her. She can't die. She's all I have."

"As I said it's Degos, there's no treatment. I can't wave a magic wand and make it better. She's dying."

"You can't give up," Harris said desperately. "You're supposed to be the best there is.  
"I thought I was a scumbag slave?" House asked. He had nothing to lose now really.  
Harris's face hardened. "You almost persuaded me you could be something more. But even with your freedom at stake you're useless. Get those other doctors in here."

"They'll tell you what I just told you. It's Degos disease, and she'll die within 24 hours. There aren't any miracles here."

"Just get them here."

House went over to the phone in the room and paged Foreman.

The two men waited in silence until Foreman arrived, Chase and Cameron trailing behind him. 

"What does my daughter have?" Harris asked Foreman. Foreman looked from Harris to House, reluctant to reveal the diagnosis if House hadn't already done so.

"Just tell him," House said wearily. He shifted his weight. He wanted to sit down somewhere. He wanted this nightmare to be over.

"She has Degos disease," Foreman said.

"And the prognosis?"

"I'm sorry, it's terminal. She has less than one day before her body shuts down completely."

A sudden alarm split the air. All four doctors examined the monitors.

"She's flatlining!" Foreman yelled. "Somebody call a code."

Cameron went to the phone while Chase hurried over to help Foreman. Together they worked on Elizabeth while House watched. Harris hovered helplessly. In the midst of the chaos Wilson came into the room.

"You okay?" he asked House. 

"I told Harris about the Degos."

"You did what?" 

House gestured at the bed. "He was going to know soon anyway - hard to miss your daughter dying in front of you."

"I asked you to give me time!"

"There wasn't any to give. It's over, Wilson."

"We might be able to change his mind."

House shook his head. "Not Harris. He was born with a heart three sizes too small..." He broke off; staring at something only he could see. 

"We brought her back," Foreman came over to them. "But she can't have long. I'm sorry, House."

"Start her on heparin and IV immunoglobulin." House said briskly. 

Foreman blinked at him. "For Degos?"

"That cardiac arrest wasn't just a "my body is giving up' arrest. It was a coronary event. Coronaries are large vessels. Which means it can't be Degos

"But the biopsies..."

"The blood vessels aren't obstructed because of Degos. It's primary antiphospholipid syndrome."

"You can't be sure of that."

"If it's Degos she's dead, and Wilson loses his slave. If it's not, well... Wilson also loses a slave, but he gets his BFF back. What's your money on, Wilson?"

"I'll start treatment, and I hope to hell you're right," Foreman responded.

"I do too."

* * *

‘  
Wilson woke House with a gentle touch on his shoulder. Both men had slept the night at the hospital - House was still forbidden to leave. 

"I just heard from Foreman. Elizabeth is responding to the treatment. She's sitting up and asking for pizza." Wilson smiled with relief. "You did it, House. It's over."

House sat up slowly, his whole body sore from the stress and tension of the last couple of days. He took in Wilson's words and closed his eyes. The prospect of freedom was so enticing that he couldn't believe it could be true. 

"Harris still has to hold up his end of the deal," he pointed out.

"He has no reason not to, with his daughter cured. Why would he care whether you were free or not?"

"He doesn't need a reason. I need to see her," House said, reaching for his cane. 

"I'll come with you."

* * *

Harris wasn't in Elizabeth's room when they got there but Elizabeth was sitting up in bed playing with a soft toy. She looked up as they entered, smiling at Wilson but frowning when she saw House. 

"Are you a slave?" 

"Yes." He said, picking up her chart and checking her latest test results. 

"My Daddy says slaves are bad men. You shouldn't be here."

"Your Dad is wrong." Wilson said. "This slave is the doctor who saved your life."

She looked at House again, her expression puzzled. 

"That's enough," a voice came from the doorway and both men turned around. Harris was standing there, a cup of coffee in his hand. 

"Come out here," he ordered. 

"Wouldn't want your daughter to get the wrong idea about slaves, would you?" House asked but complied. There wasn't much to gain by antagonising Harris and a lot to lose. 

"I'll just be a minute sweetheart," Harris said and then shut the door to the room.

"She's going to be alright?" he asked House.

"Yes, she'll need to continue treatment for a couple more days but she'll be fine."

Harris nodded. 

"I'll get my office started on the paperwork for your release. It may take a week or two. Stay low and out of trouble until you hear from me."

"You could thank him," Wilson said. 

"I would think that getting that collar off his neck would be all the thanks he needed."

"Give it up, Wilson." House said, turning to go. "People don't change. I got what I wanted and so did he."

Wilson lingered a moment longer and then turned on his heel and followed House down the corridor. He caught up to him and they walked away, side by side. 

_Two Weeks Later_

Wilson watched as House entered the car. For the first time since this nightmare had begun he sat in the front passenger seat. The harness and hood sat discarded on the back seat of the car. House rubbed the skin on his neck, something he had been doing since the collar had been unceremoniously removed an hour before in the SAC offices. The skin was calloused and red, a reminder of his time as a slave. The tattoo had also been removed, and a bandage covered the spot on his cheek.

House had been quiet throughout the whole process – clearly uneasy at being back inside a SAC building. The officers had addressed all their remarks to Wilson, continuing to treat House as a piece of property, even after he had been freed. They'd never see him as anything but a slave.

Neither man could escape the building quickly enough.

Wilson slipped into the driver's seat and drove off as quickly as possible, anxious to put distance between them and the past.

"What do you want to do first?" he asked House.

House had been staring out the window the whole time and when he turned to look at him Wilson could see that his eyes were wet.

"I'm tired, Wilson. I just want to go home," he said quietly.

Wilson reached out, his fingertips brushing House's sleeve. "Of course. It's been a long day."

He drove them home in silence, but it was the silence of old friends, rather than the silence of a hooded and restrained slave being driven around by his owner.

House was free.


	21. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small scene was added at the end of the previous chapter since it was first posted.

**Epilogue**

_Three months later_

He makes his way through the front door of Princeton General. His head is kept down and his gaze averted from any eye contact. It's a learned behaviour he hasn't been able to shake off yet. Where before he used to limp confidently through a crowd now he keeps to the edges. Where once he used his very presence to intimidate and to control, now he cannot. It's just another sign of how much of himself he's lost. 

The collar is gone but the scars remain. The mark on his cheek where the tattoo was removed, the calloused skin on his neck where metal once sat, the faint lines that shackles have left around his wrists, and the lash marks that cross his back. 

The scars inside him hurt the worst. His sleep brings him nightmares; his days a constant reminder of his pain. He works as a consultant at PPTH now - it will be a long struggle to get his license restored. He moves every day amongst those who scorned and abused him when he was a slave. The guards' eyes follow him as he enters and leaves, and his colleagues smirk knowingly in his presence. Whispers follow his every movement around the hospital. _That's Greg House, he was a slave_.

Wilson, Cuddy and his former fellows are his sole allies. Wilson has allowed him to continue staying with him - House's old apartment is long gone and finding another has no appeal. Cuddy has protected him from those who think he has no place in the hospital, and the fellows continue to willingly do his bidding, even though he has no authority over them now. 

He goes to the third floor, still moving quietly. It's shift changeover time, and that gives him a window of opportunity. When no-one is watching he slips into the second room on the left. It's a private room where the man is recovering from a bullet wound. 

He disconnects the call button before the man can protest and shuts the door behind him. 

"What the hell do you want, slave?" Tritter asks. He's sitting propped up, his face lined with pain. 

He hadn't been tracking Tritter since he'd been freed. It was pure chance that he saw a news article about the police officer hero who'd been shot pursuing a suspect. Pure luck that the man was in Princeton General recovering.

"I'm not a slave now," he says, showing Tritter his bare neck. "Got freed."

"Once a slave, always a slave. However you got out of that collar it will only be a matter of time before you get another one. Piece of trash like you, you can't help it. I'll see you again then."

He'll never be a slave again. That he's vowed to himself. 

He moves over to the morphine pump which stands by Tritter's bed. It will be a painless death for him - much more than he deserves. 

"What... what are you doing? Get the fuck away from that. I need that," Tritter says, his eyes fixed on the pump. He thinks that House is going to disconnect it, to cause him pain. To get revenge - as if anything could even the scales between them. 

"What you did to me..." House stops, his mind blanking. The memories come in his dreams and always will, but he doesn't want to think of them now. He doesn't want to dwell on what this man did to him. He doesn't want to live there. Stopping him is enough.

"You were a slave, I used you. Big deal. That's what slaves are for. You weren't even a good fuck. You were a pathetic excuse for a doctor, and a pathetic slave."

He presses the safety override on the pump. A massive dose of morphine. Tritter will seem to be sleeping when anyone walks past the room. Until he's not. He'll never touch House again.

He's going to take this man's life away, just as Tritter took away so much from him. 

His fingers linger on the buttons. A few quick presses. That's all it will take. Tritter will be out of his life forever.

Except he won't. Not if he does this. 

His hand drops away. If he does this Tritter will have taken even more from him and House has very little more that he can afford to lose. 

"No," he says quietly. "You dying won't change anything. Nothing will."

Tritter is staring at him, his eyes wide, fear on his face. He seems to have finally realised the danger he is in. House welcomes that fear. 

"Stay away from me," House says and then he leaves, as silently as he came.

He slips back into the corridor outside the room. Nobody has noticed anything. He turns to go and freezes as he catches the eye of a man in a bright orange coverall, pushing a mop. 

The slave is younger than him, but his eyes are without hope. There's no Wilson for him. No Harris. No miracle to restore his freedom. House lingers as the slave stares at the ground submissively, willing House to leave him alone.

What can House tell him? That he was a slave once, and now he's free? How would that help? Instead he slips a hand into his pocket and withdraws a candy bar he was keeping there. He's still unused to having food freely available. 

"Take this," he says, pressing it into the slave's hand. 

The slave stares at it and then slips it inside his coverall. "Thank you, sir," he dares to whisper. 

House nods, and there's nothing more to say so he walks off. When he looks behind him the slave is mopping the floor, his head bowed. 

When he returns to PPTH he's just in time to see Ayersman walking out the front door - holding a cardboard box with a few personal items in his hands. He freezes - he's managed to avoid the man since he was freed - but Ayersman has seen him. 

"One day you won't have those two to look out for you, House," he says with a scowl, dumping the box into his car. 

"And one day you might be a decent surgeon, but I'm not holding my breath," House rejoins. His heart is pounding, being so close to the man, but he's also filled with relief. Wilson had said that he was trying to get Ayersman to move on. Whatever strings he pulled, whatever the machinations needed behind the scene Wilson has accomplished it. 

He walks on and enters the hospital Ayersman has just left.

It's difficult to pick up the reins of his old life, and things will never be the same. But he has his freedom, and he has his friends and he'll survive. 

Just like he always has.

 

~ End

 

 

 

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End file.
